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URSULA FINCH 


A NOVEL 


BY ^ 

)cs'^A 


ISABEL CtTCLARKE 



New York, Cincinnati, Chicago 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 

Fubushers of Benziger’s Magazine 

1920 




Copyright, 1920 , by Benziger Brothers 




j 



NOV -8 1920 

0)CI,A605564 


J 


CONTENTS 


Chapter I ^ 

Chapter II 

Chapter III 23 

Chapter IV 36 

Chapter V . . . 46 

Chapter VI 62 

Chapter VII 

Chapter VIII .80 

Chapter IX 93 

Chapter X 103 

Chapter XI 114 

Chapter XII 121 

Chapter XIII 13 1 

Chapter XIV 139 

Chapter XV 148 

Chapter XVI 160 

Chapter XVII . 169 

Chapter XVIII 186 

Chapter XIX 193 

Chapter XX 203 

Chapter XXI 211 

Chapter XXII 220 


V 


CONTENTS 


Page 

Chapter XXIII 227 

Chapter XXIV 241 

Chapter XXV 249 

Chapter XXVI . 260 

Chapter XXVII 267 

Chapter XXVIII 277 

Chapter XXIX 284 

Chapter XXX 297 

Chapter XXXI 307 

Chapter XXXII -317 

Chapter XXXIII 328 

Chapter XXXIV 338 

Chapter XXXV 347 

Chapter XXXVI 354 

Chapter XXXVII 360 


URSULA FINCH 

CHAPTER I 

U rsula Finch climbed the steep hill that formed 
the principal street of the little Cornish port 
of St. Faith’s. She moved slowly, for her parcels 
were many and heavy. She had just accomplished 
the weekly shopping and was now on her way home 
to Pentarn. At the top of the hill she paused, and 
looked across the little town which lay so pictur- 
esquely at her feet. 

The scene was charming, and although it was so 
familiar to her its charm appeared to-day both new 
and arresting. May had come in with a wonderful 
burst of sunshine, a season of drought over which 
farmers, already anxious for their hay crop, were 
shaking their heads dubiously. Sea and sky were 
vividly blue this afternoon, and the bay of St. 
Faith’s showed a stretch of ultramarine mingled 
with silver that was calm and silken, and met the 
gold of the sands in a warm and beautiful passion 
of color. The steep, rocky coast that rose above 
the bay was softened in places by lines of pale sand- 
dunes, or “towans” as they are locally called, cov- 
ered with the long, dusky grass that stirred in the 
breeze. 

Immediately below her was the harbor, full now 
of fishing-boats that were beginning to swim and 
rock once more as the water rushed in with the ris- 
ing tide. Round three sides of the little harbor was 
built the fishermen’s quarter, nests and alleys of. 
small, crooked, irregular streets; the houses, fash- 
ioned of the rough, grey, Cornish stone, being for 
the most part low with high, sloping, slate roofs 


8 


URSULA FINCH 


broken by dormer-windows. Beyond those streets 
to the north, a little promontory known as the 
Island thrust itself sharply into the Atlantic. It was 
not so far away but that Ursula could see the dark- 
brown fishing-nets lying on the short, green turf of 
the Island, side by side with the patches of white 
where the weekly washing had been spread out to 
bleach in the sun. She could discern also the little 
grey chapel, dedicated to St. Nicholas and built on 
the site of a very early one, that crowned the sum- 
mit. The Island rose high above the blue line of 
the Atlantic, cutting it in two. 

Eastward the long, broken line of the Cornish 
coast spread north and south, wonderfully colored 
this calm spring day in tones of violet and green, 
while bay after bay, blue almost as the Mediterra- 
nean, touched the gold of the sands with a faint, 
white rim. Overhead the sea-gulls were circling, 
uttering their restless mewing cries. The little town 
to-day was painted in a high key of color, pale and 
brilliant, with here and there a black, tarred wall, 
a rosy roof or red-brick chimney, to break with sud- 
den emphasis the surrounding tints of grey and 
yellow and mauve. 

The stir of the sea, the monotonous voice of its 
many waters, sounded in Ursula’s ears; the salt 
tang of it was upon her lips as she stood there, a 
slight, rather shabby figure, her dark hair dis- 
arranged by the wind and her grey eyes shining. 

A motor came swiftly round the corner and 
halted suddenly close to her. Of its two occupants 
Ursula was momentarily astonished to recognize 
the figure of her elder sister. Daphne, accompanied 
by a young man. It is true that Daphne rarely re- 
turned from St. Faith’s unaccompanied, but none of 
their near neighbors possessed such luxuries as 
motors, and Ursula had never to her knowledge 


URSULA FINCH 


9 


seen this young man before. Here in the little re- 
mote town he appeared almost as conspicuous and 
unusual a figure as Daphne herself. 

He stepped lightly down and opened the door, 
and Ursula saw that he was tall and slightly built 
with the fair hair growing, as she perceived when 
he lifted his hat, thick and strong with a hint of a 
wave as in some ancient portrait bust. His eyes 
were of the blue grey that resembles the color of a 
stormy sea darkened by passing clouds, and his face 
might, she supposed, have been called effeminate, 
so carefully drawn was it, but for the touch of dark 
tan that suggested a recent exposure to fierce desert 
suns. 

Certainly not one of the many brilliant young 
artists who formed a small, intelligent, rather ex- 
clusive colony in St. Faith’s, and who had been 
known on more than one occasion to forsake brushes 
and paints and journey out to Pentarn to gaze on 
the reputed loveliness of the rector’s eldest daugh- 
ter. Ursula knew them all by sight at any rate, 
nor was she ever offended at their ready forgetful- 
ness of herself. This man was not of a type fre- 
quently seen at St. Faith’s. His aspect seemed to 
suggest something more sophisticated, as of one 
accustomed to the life of cities, even of foreign 
cities. 

He stood there now in front of Ursula, eagerly 
inviting her to get in, while the sun was busily weav- 
ing golden strands in his hair, which grew thickly 
on his brow and was brushed back in a way that 
suggested a plume. 

“Do get in and I’ll give you both a lift home,’^ 
he said, smiling at Ursula. 

Ursula hesitated; she had learned not to intrude. 
Daphne’s face could scarcely be called encouraging. 
But it would have been useless to refuse. Already 


lO 


URSULA FINCH 


her parcels were being kindly but firmly removed 
from her hands, and were being stowed away in 
the back of the car. She took her seat in the place 
indicated, behind her sister. 

Daphne looked over her shoulder. 

“I forgot you hadn’t met each other,” she said in 
her cool, charming voice. “Mr. Willmot, this is 
my sister Ursula.” 

Daphne played the part through life of the 
pretty, charming woman, and so well had it suc- 
ceeded that she was already able to look back upon 
a long line of conquests. She was twenty-four but 
she looked barely twenty. Ursula at twenty-two 
was often taken for the elder. 

They sped swiftly along the road that skirted 
the top of the town, obtaining fleeting visions of 
huddled roofs lying in picturesque confusion below 
them. Soon the little port was left behind and they 
were going rapidly through the open country, across 
the bare, unwooded heights that stretched in bleak, 
blunt lines behind the coast. They passed little 
groups of grey cottages that looked almost grim in 
those austere surroundings. Here and there, the 
rusty skeletons of long disused machinery, together 
with unlovely mounds of slack, revealed the pres- 
ence of some once-prosperous mine. 

They reached the rectory in what seemed to 
Ursula an incredibly short space of time. She had 
enjoyed the swift drive through that buoyant spring 
air. Mr. Willmot sprang down, helped Daphne 
to descend, and then turned to come to Ursula’s 
assistance. She was already groping for her parcels. 

“Do, please, let me relieve you of some of these I” 
he said. 

“Oh, no, no — I mean — I always carry them.” 
She was confused and embarrassed, wishing she 
could acquire the cool composure of Daphne, for 


URSULA FINCH 


II 


whom men and boys had fetched and carried for 
nearly a decade. 

Daphne’s brows contracted a little. “Oh, you 
mustn’t trouble, really.” 

Humphrey Willmot quickly possessed himself of 
all of Ursula’s bulging parcels. 

“Did you really contemplate walking home with 
all these? To an unaccustomed eye you seem to 
have been going it! Half the stores of St. Faith’s 
must be here!” 

“I generally do our weekly shopping on Tues- 
days,” said Ursula timidly. She was always nervous 
under the delicate, critical scrutiny of Daphne. 
Standing there in front of them she secretly acknowl- 
edged, without envy, how beautiful they both were. 
Daphne so rarely found a man to surpass her in 
height. 

“You must come over and see us at the Abbey — 
we have taken it for the summer. I have seen you 
in church on two Sundays so you seem already quite 
an old friend.” Willmot smiled — a pleasant, 
slightly ironical smile, as if wide experience and 
knowledge had taught him a kind of amused toler- 
ance. “We came down here against the advice of 
all our friends who prophesied our speedy extinc- 
tion. But so far we are delighted with it — we don’t 
regret the step in the least.” 

“Oh, I am so glad you like it,” said Ursula, with 
a sudden warm note of enthusiasm in her voice. “I 
think it is perfectly lovely at the Abbey, especially 
just now.” 

“So do I,” said Humphrey, looking pleased. 
“You must get your sister to bring you over very 
soon. My mother is the most sociable woman in the 
world. She is enormously enthusiastic about the 
Abbey of course, but she wishes we had more neigh- 
bors.” 


12 


URSULA FINCH 


“People are always enormously enthusiastic about 
Pentarn for about three months,” said Daphne, 
smiling. She did not love it at all, and there were 
even days when she felt a secret, active hatred of it, 
rebelling with all her youth against its narrowness, 
its dullness. All very well its beauties for jaded 
Londoners who came thither in summer for sheer 
physical rest and refreshment. But to live there, 
year in and year out, through each long, succeeding, 
dreary winter, yes, that was indeed to fling away 
the gifts of youth and beauty. She was wasting her 
days, her precious young years. Already she was 
twenty-four. Of course, it didn’t matter for people 
like Humphrey Willmot, who had only to take the 
first train when they felt bored. Or for people like 
Ursula who had no ambition and whose life was 
filled with daily tasks. Daphne was careful never to 
air these thoughts in public; she knew that discon- 
tent is a fatal detriment to beauty and leaves its 
traces on the most exquisite face. She extracted 
what enjoyment she could, and hoped. She had 
been hoping for six, for seven years, for the arrival 
of that rich and splendid Prince Charming who was 
to take her away from Pentarn forever. 

Had he at last arrived in the person of Humphrey 
Willmot, the only son of parents whose reputed 
wealth was enormous, judged by Pentarn standards ? 

It was the first time that Pentarn Abbey had been 
let — within her remembrance — to people with a 
young and marriageable son. Generally it had been 
taken for the summer by the owners of large, young 
families. Daphne detested children. 

Still Humphrey must be taught that Ursula was 
unaccustomed to notice, and that it was quite unusual 
to include her in an invitation. She did not even 
expect it. 

“Won’t you come in? There’s sure to be tea,” 


URSULA FINCH 13 

said Daphne, carelessly. It annoyed her to hear 
two people waxing enthusiastic over Pentarn. 

“No, thanks very much. I must be getting back.” 
Humphre;^ moved toward the car. “What a perfect 
evening it is 1 ” His eyes rested upon the long, faintly- 
colored coast-line, visible through a gap in the wini 
tormented trees that afforded the rectory such inade- 
quate protection during the winter storms. 

He shook hands first with Daphne, then with 
Ursula, but it was upon Ursula’s palely-colored face 
that his eyes rested longest. 

As they went into the house, down the passage 
with its covering of worn brown linoleum. Daphne 
said: 

“Is it really necessary for you to look such a 
beast of burden when you come back from St. 
Faith’s on Tuesdays?” 

“Someone must go and fetch the things,” said 
Ursula. 

She felt chilled by her sister’s tone. Of course, 
she must have looked odd and shabby. Still Mr. 
Willmot had been very kind. He had not been so 
strangely unconscious of her presence as most of 
Daphne^s admirers. 


CHAPTER II 


T he Rev. Wilfrid Finch, rector of Pentarn, had 
spent all his married life in that tiny parish 
overlooking the wild coast of North Cornwall. He 
had married rather late and was now some years 
over sixty, his wife being nearly ten years his junior. 
Their engagement had been a long one, for they 
had waited until he had obtained a living, if the 
scanty emoluments derived from Pentarn could be 
dignified by such a name. He now suffered from 
ill-health of a pronounced dyspeptic kind, and this 
accentuated by financial anxieties, which became 
more acute every succeeding year, had confirmed in 
him a natural tendency to ill-temper. His mother 
had been a Cornishwoman, and he had at first been 
glad enough to go to Pentarn. Mrs. Finch was the 
daughter of a clergyman whose curate he had once 
been. She came from London, and was accustomed 
to a grinding poverty in unclean surroundings, so 
that the fresh wind-swept fastness of Pentarn seemed 
to her, for quite two years after her marriage, a 
singularly desirable place. There was clean, pure 
air; there were boisterous, invigorating sea-breezes; 
her health improved. Then the babies began to 
arrive in rapid succession. First there was Daphne, 
prettiest and daintiest of children, who was still the 
idol of her mother’s heart. Mrs. Finch would still 
have been perfectly willing to sacrifice herself as 
well as her three other surviving children upon the 
altar of her first-born. Ursula, the second daughter, 
seemed never to have had any childhood at all, so 
early had it been impressed upon her that she must 
“set an example,” and “take care of baby while 
mamma was out of the room” — tasks relegated as 
a rule to the eldest member of a family. But 


URSULA FINCH 


15 


Daphne from her earliest years was the ‘‘spoiled 
beauty” in embryo. After Ursula, there was a sad 
gap caused by the death of two babies in infancy. 
Then came Nicholas, the only surviving son, a wild 
little creature with black hair and eyes, and a pas- 
sionate temper. After him came another gap, caused 
by precisely the same misfortune as the first, and 
then the last and youngest child, another girl called 
Ruth, was born. She was now fifteen years of age, 
being four years younger than Nicholas. By this 
time Mrs. Finch’s single ambition was to secure a 
brilliant marriage for Daphne. She left the whole 
task of housekeeping — which at the rectory included 
a great deal also of the housework — to Ursula with 
such assistance as Ruth and a young village girl, 
called Jenny, were able to give her. 

Whatever of order and management there was 
at the rectory was due solely to Ursula’s continued 
and untiring efforts. She did her work competently 
and almost secretly. She ordered, she weighed, she 
contrived; she kept the books down to their lowest 
possible limit, and submitted to being called stingy 
by Daphne because she spent so little, and abused 
by her father because she spent too much. She 
accepted without complaint the graceless role of 
Cinderella. People were inclined to overlook 
Ursula. Yet she was very pretty in a charming, 
unobtrusive fashion, with her small pale face, her 
dark hair, and shining grey eyes. Locally, she was 
supposed to be clever, because she read and studied 
in those scanty moments of leisure that were sand- 
wiched between her interminable hours of work. 
But she had no attractive accomplishments such as 
Daphne possessed. Daphne could play and sing 
charmingly, and a great deal had been spent upon 
her tuition. Several of the musical curates in the 
neighborhood of St. Faith’s had fallen desperately 


i6 


URSULA FINCH 


in love with her, but Daphne had no intention of 
marrying a curate. Her mother’s fate alone would, 
she believed, have been a sufficient deterrent. And, 
in any case, she meant to fly higher than that I 
Ursula on the other hand would, her sister felt, 
make a pattern wife for an impecunious clergyman. 
Cooking, and planning, and sewing, and scheming 
to make a three-years-old frock look like new! 
Daphne dismissed Ursula’s future with a shrug. It 
would scarcely have made her anxious if she had 
known her father’s financial position as accurately 
as Ursula did. She would only have shrugged her 
shoulders and said, perhaps, ^^Apres moi le delugeP^ 

She intended to marry Humphrey Willmot. He 
was the most interesting and the best-looking of all 
the rich men she had ever seen. She liked his quiet, 
ironical face, his charming blue-grey eyes, his fair 
thick hair. The Willmots were wealthy people and 
adored their only son. He had no definite profes- 
sion, but he was a student and had traveled a great 
deal, and had written several books on art. 

The very next morning after their meeting with 
Humphrey in St. Faith’s, the desired invitation to 
tea at the Abbey arrived at the rectory. Hitherto, 
only formal calls had been exchanged between Mrs. 
Finch and Mrs. Willmot. Both Daphne and Ursula 
were included in the invitation. 

“But of course Ursula won’t dare to go,” said 
Daphne. Mr. Willmot must be taught that it was 
never necessary to invite Ursula — she was so much 
happier with her sewing-machine or her cooking 
pots. She suffered agonies of shyness when she went 
anywhere; it was really far kinder to leave her at 
home. Besides, she was too busy to indulge in un- 
necessary dissipations — even those very mild dissi- 
pations that Pentarn could offer. Ruth was too 
young, and Nicholas, with his rude, boisterous man- 


URSULA FINCH 


17 

ners, was, thank heaven, at Oxford I Daphne was a 
little ashamed of her only brother, she felt that he 
did her small credit. Nor was he a person that 
could be easily hidden. His ready tongue often be- 
trayed her, for his young vision was acute. She 
and her mother had both opposed the plan of send- 
ing him to college. But Nicholas, wild as he was, 
was determined to go, and his energy and brilliance 
won the day. He had obtained a valuable scholar- 
ship and was able to pay almost the whole of his 
own expenses. 

The drought ended suddenly on the very morning 
of the day when the expedition to the Abbey was to 
take place. Grey mists blotted out the coast-line that 
faded like a spectre. A thin rain blew in from the 
sea, and a high wind whistled among the trees that 
fringed the rectory garden. Clouds colored like 
Indian ink traveled across the sky in swift squadrons. 
The May day was as chilly and unpromising as it 
could be, and yet with it all the sense and promise 
of spring were strangely apparent. No sickly herald 
of weakling blossom and fruit, but the stir of a 
vigorous, passionate young life that told of steady 
growth, and of the strong secret work that was be- 
ing accomplished everywhere, unhindered, organ- 
ized, inexorable. No fierce damaging westerly 
gales, salt as the Atlantic breakers themselves, could 
materially arrest for an hour that process that was 
going forward to its inevitable goal. 

But Daphne watched the weather with a rueful 
eye. How tiresome that it should rain just to-day I 
Impossible to wear that new, grey cloth dress and 
broad-brimmed hat of grey straw. She and her 
mother would have to walk to the Abbey enveloped 
in mackintoshes, and Mrs. Finch would certainly 
don an unsightly pair of goloshes to be left in the 
hall on arrival. 


i8 


URSULA FINCH 


“Where is your sister?’’ asked Humphrey, when 
the first greetings had been duly exchanged, and 
Daphne tried not to believe that there was any hint 
of disappointment in his tone. 

“She couldn’t come to-day. She hardly ever 
goes anywhere. Ursula is a regular recluse 1’* 
Daphne smiled prettily. She was looking really 
beautiful to-day; the soft damp air had blown a 
delicious color into her face. Her small black hat 
revealed just enough of her hair, which was so fair 
as to be almost colorless, and which was perhaps the 
most enchanting thing about her. That lint-colored 
hair is often seen on Cornish children, accompanied, 
as Daphne’s was, by large, dark blue eyes, fringed 
heavily with black lashes. What impression was 
she making upon Humphrey ^Willmot, who had 
perhaps seen beautiful women in most of the capitals 
of Europe? But his eager question about IJrsula 
had troubled her serenity a little. 

“Oh, you mustn’t really let her indulge in such 
misanthropic tastes,” he said; “she’s altogether too 
young I” 

Mrs. Finch sat beside her hostess on the sofa. 
The contrast between them was almost pitiful. They 
were perhaps of about the same age, but the rec- 
tor’s wife looked by a decade the older of the two. 
She had once been pretty enough, but all trace of 
comeliness had long left her. In her early fifties 
she looked old, tired, and fretful. The birth of 
eight children, the early deaths of four of them, the 
perpetual struggle to obtain everything she wanted 
for Daphne with an altogether inadequate income, 
her husband’s difficult temper, had all contributed 
to embitter her. She sat there envying the calm 
opulent air of Mrs. Willmot, who looked as if she 
could have cheerfully faced and met the most ex- 
acting demands of importunate tradesmen! When 


URSULA FINCH 


19 


tea came in Mr. Willmot made his appearance, a 
tall, benign-looking, elderly man, grey-haired but 
fully as well-preserved as his wife. Surely a man 
who never lost his temper, thereby upsetting the 
whole household. Perhaps his wealth had been ex- 
aggerated in Pentarn, among a population so little 
accustomed to incomes that ran into five figures. 
His tastes were obviously simple, for at tea he ate 
nothing but some dry toast. Prudence perhaps en- 
joined this austerity. He spoke but little, yet he 
looked amiable. Once or twice his keen eyes trav- 
eled from Daphne to his son. 

There was an atmosphere of mutual devotion 
among these three people which struck even 
strangers, and Mrs. Finch did not fail to perceive 
it and also to envy it. Humphrey had an admirable 
manner with his parents. He was affectionate, at- 
tentive, and slightly ironical, even rallying them 
occasionally on their more obvious foibles. 

“You are very courageous to eat those cakes, 
Miss Finch,’’ said Mr. Willmot. 

“Do not, please, listen to him — he is envying you 
passionately,” interposed Humphrey. He held out 
the plate and was enchanted to see her take a second 
one with the tips of her dainty fingers. He liked 
to see slender, well-cared-for hands. 

“Wait till you are sixty, Humphrey!” 

“I hope to resemble you in all things when I am, 
except in your partiality for dry toast!” 

The elder Willmot’s eyes twinkled. 

“You are indeed a dutiful son!” 

Mrs. Willmot watched them with a tender and 
attentive approbation. These two men were her 
whole world, making it for her an extremely pleas- 
ant and desirable place. She liked their mutual 
attitude of understanding, tolerance, and sympathy. 
So many sons were odious to their fathers. But 


20 URSULA FINCH 

Humphrey was a perfect son. If he would only 
marry I 

In reply to one of Mrs. Finch’s slightly discon- 
nected remarks she said: “Oh, does your daughter 
sing? How charming! Humphrey adores music — 
he really plays quite well. We must persuade her 
to come over and dine here one night, and then per- 
haps she will sing for us.” 

“I should simply love to,” said Daphne. She 
bestowed a frank smile upon Mrs. Willmot for this 
ready invitation. In spite of its unpromising be- 
ginning the afternoon was shaping well. The hos- 
pitality of the Abbey was not to begin and end with 
this solitary invitation to tea. 

“Is it not the office of a siren to sing?” Mr. Will- 
mot inquired of his wife when their guests had 
departed, and Humphrey had announced his inten- 
tion of accompanying them across the park. 

“Oh, what do you mean, Robin?” 

“Just exactly what I say.” He sat beside her on 
the sofa and took her hand in his, stroking it. 

“Confess she is very pretty and charming. And 
what an odiously dull life she must have! They 
have hardly a penny to bless themselves with, and I 
hear these girls do nearly all the housework.” 

“I don’t think Miss Finch’s hands show any signs 
of housework!” 

“You are always so sarcastic about women, 
Robin. I am sure that is where Humphrey gets it 
from.” 

“I am always studying devices to put him on his 
guard. Fortunately, none of you women realize 
what an easy prey a mere man is. But this girl is 
very lovely. Let us hope for Humphrey’s sake that 
she sings out of tune !” 

“You are horrible. I have taken an enormous 
fancy to her. I mean to ask her to come and stay 
with us in London.” 


URSULA FINCH 




“Do, my dear. Humphrey always conceives an 
immediate prejudice against your eligible maidens.” 

“He is nearly thirty. You ought to wish him to 
marry.” 

“I do. But not Miss Finch. I don’t detect the 
signs of a good wife in her. You know I want 
something superlative for our boy.” 

He bent down and kissed her, knowing that his 
last remark would make a special appeal to her. 
Then he left the room, retiring to solitude in his 
own study. Much later he perceived his son com- 
ing across the park under a dripping umbrella. 

“He must have walked all the way home with 
them,” was his mental comment. 

The thought perturbed him a little. 

But to Daphne the visit had been — considered as 
the opening move in the game — a distinct success. 
Despite the torrents of rain Humphrey had not 
attempted to leave them till the rectory gate had 
been reached. He had even paused there, with an 
obvious desire to detain them, to inquire the date 
of the church tower. Thirteenth century I Daphne 
was glib in her reply. He looked up at its mellowed 
greyness, powdered with golden lichens, with a 
vague approval in his eyes. 

“You must come to see us. Come whenever you 
like,” said Mrs. Finch. 

Without exchanging a word with her daughter 
on the subject, she knew perfectly well what hopes 
and dreams now possessed her mind. 

“Thank you very much, indeed,” said Humphrey. 

He glanced up at the oblong grey stone house 
that was architecturally so ugly and yet had qualities 
of strength and austerity that seemed to be at one 
with its harsh setting upon these bleak wind-swept 
heights. The place held a kind of fascination for 
him, it was so different from anything comprised 
within his own experience. One could imagine 


22 


URSULA FINCH 


tragedies being enacted there, but never a light, 
witty, modern comedy. The spirit of place was 
strongly perceptible in this little remote parsonage 
of North Cornwall. Yet he sincerely pitied those 
two girls for having to spend the whole of their 
youth in such unlovely, penurious surroundings. 


CHAPTER III 


^T^HERE were visitors at the rectory — an unn<^nal 
A occurrence, for Mrs. Finch had no reputation 
for hospitality of a promiscuous kind, and Daphne 
preferred to conduct her ceaseless flirtations as far 
as possible from disapproving paternal eyes. But 
on this particular afternoon of early May, Mrs. 
Burton and her sister, Madame Garroni, had 
motored over from the Castle, a palatial modern 
mansion that commanded a proud and prominent 
position on the coast, two miles away. It was pre- 
tentious, modern, hideously inartistic, and was an 
eyesore, but Mr. Burton, who had caused it to be 
erected with some of his newly-acquired wealth, 
preferred to allude to it as a landmark. 

The Burtons had once lived in more modest fash- 
ion in Pentarn, and in those rather remote days 
Mrs. Finch had been in a position to patronize 
them, but the ups and downs of life had materially 
changed their respective positions, and invitations 
to the Castle did not now find their way to the rec- 
tory with any frequency. Mr. Burton had been 
somewhat suddenly enriched through the death of 
an uncle. His wife hailed from Penzance, where 
her father had possessed a small retail business, a 
fact which she had found it convenient to forget. 
Nevertheless, he had given his two plain daughters 
a good education, and he had been bitterly annoyed 
when the elder one, at an age that should have en- 
couraged her to listen to wiser counsels, suddenly 
became engaged to an Italian engineer who was 
visiting the Cornish mines that summer. She had 
been living in Rome for the past nine years, and 
23 


24 URSULA FINCH 

was now on a visit to her sister at the Castle for the 
first time. 

Mrs. Burton, who was the younger of the two, 
was a highly prosperous-looking matron of thirty- 
eight. She had one son, a boy of nineteen, whose 
name was Stanley and upon whom all her hopes 
were concentrated. He did not accompany her to- 
day, for she knew that he admired Daphne, and she 
feared that despite the difference in their ages he 
might be caught in her toils. Madame Garroni’s 
lot in life was very different. Four years older than 
her sister, she had married much later, and she had 
never really accustomed herself to her life in Rome. 
She had been attracted by Garroni’s face, his dark 
eyes, his pleasant, courteous manners, and she had 
married him in haste, agreeing, without demur, to 
the conditions his mother insisted upon imposing. 
But he was practically without fortune; his income 
consisted of his earnings, which, judged by English 
standards, were small, and he found his wife’s £500 
a year a very useful asset. They lived in a none 
too convenient flat in Rome, together with his old 
mother, and a young man called Mario, who was 
Guido Garroni’s nephew. Madame Garroni soon 
discovered that she was neither expected nor en- 
couraged to go into society. There were no tea- 
parties and reunions such as she had enjoyed in 
Penzance. Her acquaintance was limited to her 
husband’s friends, and the only Englishwomen she 
knew were placed exactly as she herself was placed, 
having married as she had done into the Italian 
bourgeoisie. They were not as a rule discontented 
with their lot. There were disadvantages of course. 
A woman was expected to occupy herself much more 
with domestic affairs, with the care of her own chil- 
dren, with the necessary cooking and sewing. The 
smart and experienced English nurse was found 


URSULA FINCH 


25 


only in wealthy aristocratic circles in Rome. 
Madame Garroni had always felt that with her in- 
come in England she could have had a small com- 
fortable house in the country with an establishment 
of at least two servants. But her Italian marriage 
took the control of her money completely out of her 
own hands, and she was dismayed to find how much 
of it was swallowed up in the annual rent of their 
flat. Her husband also tabooed unnecessary travel- 
ing, and this was the first time he had permitted her 
to come home and exhibit her two little girls. 

All that she saw of the spacious, hideous Castle 
filled her with envy. Of course, one missed the sun- 
shine, the brilliant, almost exaggerated light, but 
how restful were the grey English skies, the green, 
flower-strewn fields, the long blue line of the Atlan- 
tic. She considered that Mrs. Burton led a life of 
almost slothful ease. There were a great many 
servants at the Castle, and they performed their 
tasks with a meticulous, almost mechanical, accuracy, 
very unlike the Italian conception of domestic serv- 
ice. She, herself, had very little help in Rome; 
sometimes they were without a servant for weeks at 
a time. It was Mrs. Burton who suggested that she 
should take a nursery-governess back with her, one 
who could take entire charge, do all the sewing, and 
give the little girls their first lessons. Such a per- 
son, she alleged, could be found very cheaply in- 
deed, much more cheaply than a regular nurse. It 
was by inspiration Mrs. Burton felt that she had 
suddenly thought how admirably Ursula Finch 
would suit her sister. The very girl ! An excellent 
person, to whom the prospect of traveling abroad 
would doubtless appeal in a very special manner. 
They lost no time in ordering the motor to take 
them to the Pentarn rectory. 

The door was opened by the slatternly Jenny, 


26 


URSULA FINCH 


fresh from scrubbing the kitchen. They were shown 
into the drawing-room and there they waited for 
about ten minutes, while Mrs. Finch perfornie'd 
those changes in her toilette which the occasion 
seemed to demand. Useless to call upon Daphne to 
go down to them, and Ursula was engaged in baking 
the bread, and therefore must not be interrupted. 

“They must be very hard-up,” observed Madame 
Garroni, looking round the shabby room with 
appraising eyes. “I should think they would jump 
at the idea. What did Stanley mean by saying that 
we should offend them?” 

“He always says that Daphne, the eldest girl, 
is sure to marry someone of importance, and that 
Mr. Finch is as proud as Lucifer although he is so 
poor. But I do not see how she can ever meet any- 
one of importance in Pentarn. We have really al- 
most given up coming here or even asking them.” 
Mrs. Burton’s tone was acid. She had an idea that 
their old neighbors were still inclined to despise 
them for their humble beginnings, although the 
opulence and magnificence of the Castle were a by- 
word in the district. Damaged titles found their 
way thither; impecunious bachelors enjoyed its free 
food of the first quality. The motors were numer- 
ous; the golf-links beyond praise. The rise of the 
Burtons had been of sudden but continued growth. 

Mrs. Burton had none of her son’s diffidence on 
the subject, and when Mrs. Finch appeared she 
broached it without delay. 

“My sister, Madame Garroni, is returning to 
Rome in a few weeks, and she wants a nursery- 
governess for Alda and Rosina. I thought perhaps 
your second girl — it would be such a charming 
opportunity for her to see something of the world!” 

Mrs. Finch’s thin face hardened a little. 

“I couldn’t possibly spare Ursula,” she replied, 


URSULA FINCH 


2 ^ 

without hesitation and with a hint of offence in her 
tone. 

“We feel that she would have been so absolutely 
trustworthy. I could have left my children with her 
with such confidence! I have a delightful home to 
offer her, although, of course, it is not so grand as 
the Castle, and I would have given her twenty-five 
pounds a year. That for a girl who has never been 
in a situation of the kind before is really an excellent 
salary.” 

Madame Garroni spoke with a certain eagerness. 
She had made up her mind that there would be no 
difficulty; since the Finches were so poor they would 
certainly jump at her offer. She would get her cheap 
— and Arabella Garroni had acquired habits of 
thrift. She economized, as so many people do, in 
ways that affected others but seldom deranged her 
own comfort. How could Mrs. Finch refuse when 
her means were so small, her family so large? 

“I couldn’t possibly spare her,” repeated Mrs. 
Finch, with singular determination. 

“We may see her, may we not?” suggested Mrs. 
Burton. 

“I am afraid she is too busy this afternoon. But 
in any case Wilfrid and I always settle everything 
— we don’t allow our children any independence. 
We feel it is safer.” She closed her lips in a thin 
hard line. 

Mrs. Burton suppressed a smile. She had heard 
stories of Daphne. Daphne had no fancy for being 
caged. It was a mercy Stanley had been so rea- 
sonable, the sight of the rectory, its shabbiness, its 
poverty, had sufficed to put him off. He had been 
known to admit diffidently, but without shame, that 
he knew he was a snob. But he had never revealed 
even to his mother the delicate snubbing he had once 
received at the hands of the eldest Miss Finch. 


28 


URSULA FINCH 


Mrs. Burton, like Mr. Willmot, felt that Daphne 
as a daughter-in-law might leave everything to be 
desired. 

But Ursula! There was a girl in a thousand. 
Steady, conscientious, thoroughly domesticated, dis- 
ciplined, snubbed at home and supposed to be even 
averse to amusement, she would have been a real 
treasure. Madame Garroni had constant trouble 
with her Italian servants. She did not understand 
their mentality, and made no effort to study their 
temperaments. But she accurately guessed that she 
would have found, and kept, a slave in Ursula Finch. 

“You won’t think it over, and perhaps consult 
Mr. Finch?’’ Madame Garroni made another 
effort. 

“My husband would be even more opposed to the 
plan than I am. We are both against all this for- 
eign traveling. I have certainly never felt the need 
of it myself, and from all I can see it simply unfits 
girls for their useful home-life.” 

The two sisters rose. Madame Garroni was 
plump to breathlessness. Her figure was singularly 
shapeless, and her loud voice and provincial accent 
enhanced the touch of commonness in her appear- 
ance. 

“I’m very sorry,” she said; “she would have had 
a comfortable place, and, as I say, she would have 
seen a bit of the world. She would have been 
treated as one of the family.” She shook hands 
with a determinedly untempted Mrs. Finch. 

As they drove away, Mrs. Finch said crossly to 
herself: 

“The idea 1 As if I’d let Ursula go and be nurse 
to that odious woman’s brats I” 

She went in search of her daughter. The bread 
had been made, and she found Ursula up in the attic 
work-room, sewing. Pieces of white silk lay on 


URSULA FINCH 


29 


the table; she was fashioning a blouse for Daphne. 

She was looking tired, and as if she had only 
emerged from one tedious task to take up another. 
On strenuous days Ursula’s looks were always under 
eclipse. Small wonder that her pale little face, her 
black hair and grey eyes were seldom noticed be- 
side Daphne’s showy brilliance. Only one man, 
careless, smiling, had stopped for an amazed second 
to discern and contemplate the “pilgrim soul in her.” 
That man was Humphrey Willmot. 

“Those people from the Castle came to ask you 
to go back to Rome with Madame Garroni to look 
after her children. They offered the magnificent 
salary of twenty-five pounds a year, which is probably 
what Mrs. Burton pays her kitchenmaidi You were 
to be treated like one of the family, if you please I 
Of course, I utterly declined.” 

The girl looked up from her sewing. She was 
heavy eyed, as if she had had for a considerable 
time past too little sleep. 

“I should have liked to go to Italy,” she said. 

“Don’t argue,” said Mrs. Finch; “it is quite 
settled that I can not spare you.” She glanced 
significantly at the white silk. “Your duty lies 
here.” 

Ursula’s needle pursued its course with a deft 
regularity that suggested long apprenticeship. Her 
thoughts were full of the extraordinary chance that 
had come in her way. It seemed a pity to have to 
refuse. She had never seen any cities except Lon- 
don, and she had only been there once as a child. 
Rome had an enchanting sound. But it was quite 
true, she could not possibly be spared. Her hands 
were too full. What she earned would not suffice to 
keep a second servant. Her eyes were very bright 
now; there was an odd lump in her throat that 
hurt her. 


30 


URSULA FINCH 


To go away — far away! To see the gold and 
blue of the south, the flowered fields and hills of 
Italy, the purple snow-crowned Apennines, the wide 
rivers flowing past ancient cities whose very walls 
were full of the glamor of romance and history! 
She wanted to cry out : Let me go ! Let me go ! 
But one glance at her mother’s face deterred her, 
checking the dream. She couldn’t be spared. Of 
course not! Who would take her place, and cook 
and sew, and teach Ruth? Certainly not Daphne. 
Ursula was unconscious of any vanity when she as- 
sured herself that the interior economy of Pentarn 
rectory would suffer complete and immediate dis- 
ruption if she were to leave it. 

When her mother had gone she presently rose, 
put aside her work, and slipped out of the house. 
She felt a sudden agonized need of fresh air, but 
with Ursula it was always bought at a price, and she 
had to make up for the wasted moments by sacrific- 
ing some of her much-needed sleep. 

She left the rectory garden, crossed the road, and 
followed a path that dipped through high-banked 
lanes to the cliffs. She brushed past tall crimson 
fox-gloves that were just beginning to flower. The 
broad white hemlock blossoms made abrupt pale 
patches amid the green. It was a pretty time of the 
year, when the ferns showed their first delicate, pol- 
ished leaves. Even the very walls seemed to blos- 
som, with their torrents of rose-pink valerian. Now 
she could see the blue bay with its dark rocks, its 
strip of pale shining sand. Flocks of sea-gulls 
rested upon the rocks or flew low over the water. 
She looked at her watch and made a rapid calcula- 
tion. Yes, she could spare half an hour, the air 
would revive her. She made her way to a favorite 
seat, from which she could see not only the ocean 
but the glimmering coast-line spreading away to the 


URSULA FINCH 


31 


east, all green and gold but fading to purple in the 
distance, as well as the inland landscape, sparsely- 
wooded but full of delicious, varying lights and 
shadows. 

As she drew near she saw to her disappointment 
that the seat was already occupied. A man was 
sitting there smoking, his back turned toward her. 
It was too late to withdraw, and he must have heard 
her light step, for he turned his head quickly and 
she came face to face with Humphrey Willmot. 
Was he waiting for Daphne? That was the first 
thought that leaped unbidden to her mind. 

“Miss Finch! What luck! I hate sitting and 
looking at beautiful things alone.’’ 

Ursula approached timidly. 

“I did not think I should find any one here.” 

“I will go away at once !” He flung his cigarette- 
end into the bracken and stood there smiling. 

“Oh, please, don’t go,” said Ursula, confused. 
“I mean — so few people come here.” 

“This is one of your hermit’s haunts, I suppose?” 
he said good-naturedly; “your sister tells me that 
you are a recluse. So, if you really want to be alone 
on this divine evening I will go away !” 

“But I don’t in the least want to be alone,” said 
Ursula. 

He glanced at her; her shy embarrassment was 
so very different from Daphne’s cool composure. 
She wasn’t beautiful, of course, like her sister, and 
he felt that she must sometimes suffer by compari- 
son, but she was very charming-looking. He pre- 
ferred her to Daphne although she was so obviously 
inarticulate. She wanted waking up! Awakened 
she might prove extremely attractive. Already he 
took an indolent detached interest in the second 
Miss Finch. 


32 URSULA FINCH 

They sat down on the seat and for a few minutes 

neither spoke. i j 

“I suppose you are very much attached to Fen- 
tarn?” he said at last. 

“I suppose I am. I have always lived here. I 
have hardly ever been away.” 

She thought of Rome, of the chance offered that 
very day; her eyes grew troubled. 

“Some day you will go,” he ventured to prophesy. 
“If you want a thing very much you know you can 
generally obtain it. And though Pentarn is charm- 
ing I can’t imagine anyone wishing to spend a life- 
time here. In winter it must be dreary beyond 
words.” 

“Yes, it is dreary,” assented Ursula. 

“I have not spent the winter in England since I 
reached years of discretion, which I roughly esti- 
mate as eight years ago, just after I left Oxford.” 

“Where do you go?” she asked. 

“Oh, I wander as the fancy takes me-y-Italy, 
Tunis, Algeria. Egypt is charming but a trifle too 
fashionable now. Madeira — the West Indies.” He 
enumerated them carelessly. 

“It must be wonderful,” said Ursula. 

She could feel the wind beating across Pentarn in 
the winter, and hear the great waves breaking on 
the rocks. A restless world, never still, never silent. 
Sometimes, at night especially, it got on Okie’s nerves. 
You wanted to cry out, to tell it to be quiet. You 
were too close to the terror of the sea, its great 
tragedies. You knew perhaps that even at that 
moment the coast was being strewn with wrecks; 
you could almost hear the cry of drowning mariners, 
sinking in that cruel, ice-cold water. She thought 
inconsequently of a dead sea-gull she had found once 
in the garden, frozen in the storm. It had looked 
strangely discolored as it lay there on the snow. 


URSULA FINCH 


33 


Yes, the winter at Pentarn held a tragic violence. 

‘‘I have just had an opportunity of going to 
Rome,” she said suddenly, for the kindness of his 
eyes encouraged her to speak. “I would rather 
though that you did not say anything about it. My 
mother was offended, and I think she would not like 
me to mention it. There is a lady, Madame Gar- 
roni, who is staying at the Castle with her sister 
Mrs. Burton, and she wanted me to go back with 
her as nursery-governess to her two children. But 
my mother can’t spare me — I have so much to do at 
home.” 

“Of course, I won’t speak of it. But it does not 
sound a very attractive position.” 

“It was a chance of seeing Italy. I have always 
longed to go there.” 

“Do you know anything about this Madame Gar- 
roni?” 

“No. I suppose I must have seen her when I was 
a little girl, before her marriage. She and Mrs. 
Burton both came from Penzance. She offered me 
twenty-five pounds a year.” 

“My dear Miss Finch!” He threw up his hands 
with a gesture of dismay. 

“I shouldn’t have cost them anything then, and 
I could have sent nearly all of it home.” 

“But surely there isn’t any need?” He pictured 
Daphne, daintily clad. 

Ursula’s mind was full of those unpaid bills that 
lay untouched in a drawer. Bills for Daphne’s 
clothes, for Daphne’s music, bills that were left un- 
paid because Daphne’s journeys and cabs swallowed 
up all the little store of ready cash. Some day, of 
course, they would be paid when Daphne made that 
rich marriage. Ursula raised dark grey eyes to his. 
He thought they possessed the deep opaque softness 
of velvet Surely wonderful eyes in any face. 


34 


URSULA FINCH 


“Anyhow, it’s been refused. And, of course, I 
do see it was out of the question.” 

“May I say I’m glad?” he said. “You might 
have been let in for so much more than you ex- 
pected.” 

“Why, what do you mean?” 

“Those middle-class menages abroad might prove 
trying to a person brought up differently.” 

“But Madame Garroni is English.” 

“And probably can’t manage Italian servants. 
You might have been made a perfect drudge of all 
work. Who are these Burton people?” 

“They live at that great new house on Tremin- 
ster cliff. It is called the Castle.” 

“That place? But he’s a retired grocer, isn’t 
he?” 

“I don’t quite know. They are very rich now.” 

Ursula glanced at her watch. More than the 
allotted half hour had slipped by. It was time to 
go back and superintend the cooking of the supper. 
She rose. 

‘Oh, you’re not going, are you?” said Humphrey. 
“It’s quite early, you know.” 

“I’m afraid I ought to be going.” 

“Do you often come here? I mean, is this a 
favorite haunt of yours?” 

“I come sometimes, like this evening, when I 
want some fresh air.” 

“Then will you come again?” said Humphrev. 

‘Tes,” said Ursula. 

“To-morrow?” he inquired, a trifle persistently. 

To-morrow? Yes, it would be Sunday. She was 
not allowed to sew, and most of the food was al- 
ready cooked. 

“Yes, I hope to come here to-morrow.” 

“Miss Finch, should you perfectly hate finding 
me here again?” 


URSULA FINCH 


35 


“Hate it?” She looked up and laughed. “Why 
I should be delighted of course. Only — Daphne is 
going to tea at the Abbey to-morrow, perhaps you 
would rather be there.” 

She made the suggestion simply, with no ulterior 
thought. She took Daphne’s conquests for granted. 

“My mother is always giving tea-parties. I 
spend my life in avoiding them.” 

“If I can not come do not please think it is my 
fault,” said Ursula, satisfied now that for some 
strange inexplicable reason he really wished to re- 
turn and find her here on the following evening. “I 
am not always able to get away. Sometimes there 
are little things to be done.” 

The tide was going out. Little waves lisped 
against the sands, breaking into delicate lace-like 
frills of foam. They seemed to retreat almost re- 
luctantly. The bay was colored like a shining 
sapphire, touched with silver lights. Overhead the 
restless gulls mewed shrilly, as if in nervous fear. 
Small fishing-boats rocked idly, the sunlight illumi- 
nating their brown sails. Ursula felt the beauty of 
it all as if she were seeing it for the first time with 
new eyes. In the distance the green summit of the 
Island rose against the blue of sea and sky. 

She hurried home feeling curiously happy. And 
to-morrow there would be perhaps just such an- 
other day, just such another meeting, 


CHAPTER IV 


I T is doubtful whether Ursula Finch had ever since 
her childhood enjoyed an hour of real irrespon- 
sible joyousness. Always since her meagre educ- 
tion had come to an end she had been occupied with 
tasks, too heavy and too numerous for her physical 
strength. As time went on and the financial crisis 
at the rectory became more acute, Ur^la did more 
and more of the housework and cooking. She had 
not much help from the raw girl who was now their 
only servant and who was able to do little more than 
the actual scrubbing and cleaning. Her hands were 
broadened and roughened, and once they had been 
as slim and white as Daphne’s own. Mrs. Finch 
and Daphne proffered no assistance. Little Ruth, 
now a sad-looking girl of fifteen, long-legged and 
short-frocked and more or less down-at-heels and 
out-at-elbows, did what she could to help her sister. 
She slept with her, and knew at what hour on dark 
winter mornings Ursula would arise and begin the 
day’s work. No one ever thanked her. If she failed 
there was a swift sharp reprimand forthcoming, 
generally from her father. “Ursula — this pudding’s 
burnt — it isn’t fit to eat ! Such waste — ruining good 
food I” And when the kitchen and household tasks 
were more or less achieved there was sewing to be 
done for Daphne. Mending Daphne’s things was 
no sinecure, and there were blouses to be made. 
Ursula stitched till she could hardly see. 

When Daphne announced that she was to take 
her music to the Abbey that afternoon because Mrs. 
Willmot and her son both wished to hear her sing, 
Ursula had to restrain herself from saying that 
Mr. Willmot would not be there. But it would have 
36 


URSULA FINCH 


37 


been fatal to mention it. Daphne would speedily 
have found some means to prevent her sister from 
going out on the cliffs that evening. She would have 
been annoyed had she known of their meeting yes- 
terday. It had been accidental, but to-day it would 
not be accidental. Ursula was looking forward to 
it with an eager delight. She said nothing, and it 
was with a sigh of relief that she beheld Daphne 
starting Abbeyward at half-past four with a roll of 
music under her arm. 

The weather had changed. There had been rain 
in the morning and no one from the Abbey had been 
present in church. Perhaps they had gone to St. 
Faith’s, which was scarcely farther from them than 
Pentarn. The vicar there was High Church in his 
views, and perhaps the Willmots preferred that to 
the definitely evangelical services that were held at 
Pentarn. By the time Ursula was ready to go the 
sky had cleared, but a strong wind was still blowing. 
Ursula needed fresh air; she had spent an hour 
teaching in the Sunday-school before the morning 
service, and after luncheon she had written letters 
for her father and put his evening sermon ready for 
him. She would have to be in her accustomed place 
in church at half-past six. Daphne was the only one 
who dared refuse to attend any of the services. Still 
she had a good hour in front of her. 

She lifted her face as she came in view of the sea, 
to feel the full, rich sweep of the wind as it blew in 
from the Atlantic, brackish with the waves and full 
of the odor of those long, dark, shiny ropes of sea- 
weed that they flung upon the beach. Quickly it 
brought the color back to her face. It was the wind 
of spring, young, eager, adventurous. She walked 
down the path toward the cliff bending her head a 
little. A sudden curve brought her sharply to the 
place where she had met Humphrey the evening be- 


38 


URSULA FINCH 


fore. He was already there, and her heart gave a 
sudden throb of relief. She had not realized until 
then how greatly she had feared that he might fail 
her. 

Had Ursula seen and known more men she would 
not perhaps have found him so wonderful. Good- 
looking she must always have thought him, with his 
fair hair growing thick and close to his head, his 
grey-blue eyes with their note of ironical laughter, 
the well-cut features, the small, shapely head. 

She became tongue-tied. She was so glad to be 
with him again that her very gladness made her 
dumb. Humphrey was, however, a ready talker, and 
seeing her embarrassment, which he did not in the 
least understand and attributing it perhaps to her 
love of seclusion and to those misanthropic tastes 
at which Daphne had hinted, he chattered away now 
to set her at her ease. He talked about the change 
in the weather, and remarked how splendid the sea 
looked to-day, rough and dark and many-colored, 
and breaking into silver spray against the rocks. 
Then he spoke of his travels, of what he intended to 
do next winter. He had acquired that habit of in- 
timate observation so frequent in the man who 
travels and writes. If a scene appealed to him 
he could almost unconsciously photograph it upon 
his brain in all its details. It would remain in 
his mind like a color-photograph, sharply delineated 
and curiously accurate. Just then he was think- 
ing that he should always remember Ursula Finch 
as she sat there beside him in the narrow path 
that rimmed the green Cornish cliff, and that 
she would appear slight, shabby, graceful, with 
dark hair, fine as silk, and grey eyes gazing de- 
murely beneath black lashes, against a background 
of greenish sea and colorless pale sky. He thought 


URSULA FINCH 


39 

too that he should like to be able to summon up this 
portrait of her at will ; to set her down, as it were, 
in front of him, an individual, rather arresting pic- 
ture, forming part of the Cornish landscape as he 
would always remember it. 

“It doesn’t bore you to hear of places you’ve 
never seen?” he said suddenly, breaking off in his 
description of Souk-Ahras, known to the ancients as 
Tagaste, the birthplace of St. Augustine. 

“Oh, no, I love it. I often think of what it must 
be like away from Pentarn.” 

“Still you must get attached to a place you’ve al- 
ways lived in,” said the Rolling Stone cheerfully. 
“I’m a regular nomad, and it’s the life I like best. 
I couldn’t imagine, for instance, settling down for 
life in a place like Pentarn.” 

He laughed and Ursula laughed too. His good- 
humored gaiety was infectious. 

“But you do like it, don’t you?” he asked. 

“Yes, yes,” she eagerly assured him, “but one has 
dreams, you know, of other things — and the free- 
dom !” 

“Forgive me,” he said. “I know you must some- 
times feel the narrowness of it. Why, what can you 
find to do?” 

“To doF* she echoed, gazing at him now in un- 
disguised amazement; “why to-day I’m having a 
simply splendid holiday! You see on Sundays there 
is no cooking — I prepared the food yesterday. And 
I’m not allowed to sew, so except for the Sunday- 
school and services and writing a few letters for 
papa I am free all day. Sometimes on other days 
I sit up sewing till ever so late, and then I must be 
down at six or I should never get through the work, 
and everything would go wrong. There’s a lot to 
do in a house like ours!” 


40 


URSULA FINCH 


She had no intention of divulging even this much 
of her daily life, but she wanted him to know that 
at least there was no scope for idleness at the rec- 
tory. His sympathetic, interested attitude seemed to 
invite confidences. Now as he listened his face fell. 

‘‘Why, you don’t mean to say that you do the 
actual work?” he blurted out, and he looked from 
her soft, pale face to her roughened hands, a little 
reddened and coarsened. He had an insensate de- 
sire, which he immediately repressed, to raise them 
each in turn to his lips. Poor little, brave, uncon- 
quered hands! 

“But of course I do. Not the hard scrubbing — 
Jenny does that, though often I have to show her 
how. But the cooking, the mending, and the dusting 
— I have to do nearly all that. The days are too 
short and then one gets tired. So tired that you feel 
you can’t go on, and you’d give almost anything to 
spend one whole day in bed! But you remember 
the washing up, and the putting everything straight 
for the next day, so you just go on, and then some- 
how Sunday comes to give you breathing time.” 

“I do believe you are a heroine,” said Humphrey 
Willmot. His voice held a warm, enthusiastic 
sound. 

Ursula colored, she was unused to praise. “I’m 
not at all, only things must be done,” she said simply. 

Willmot looked genuinely shocked. He was ac- 
customed to dainty, leisured women, cultivated, ac- 
complished, the women in short of his own world. 
But Ursula Finch, who was little better than a slave, 
a drudge, touched a chord in his heart that was not 
a selfish one. He felt sorry for her, and the pity he 
felt was like a warm wave of feeling in his veins. 

And Daphne had called this poor, little, pale, 
over-worked Cinderella a recluse! 

“I wish I could tell you what I think of you,” he 


URSULA FINCH 


41 


said very gravely, but with a hint of tenderness in 
his voice that thrilled her. “Haven’t you really any 
one to help you?” 

“There’s Jenny of course, but she’s lazy and 
rather stupid. Ruth does what she can, but I won’t 
let her do much because she has a weak back. Be- 
sides she must do her lessons, she’s too young to give 
them up. I have so little time for teacfing her 
now.” 

“So you teach her, too?” 

Ursula nodded. “When I have time. Still she’s 
very good at working alone. I make her read a 
great deal.” 

He was struck by all lack of reference to Daphne. 

“I oughtn’t perhaps to have told you all this,” 
she continued; “one ought to keep one’s own private 
affairs locked up.” She turned her head a little from 
him, and he could only see that pale pure line of her 
profile against the background of stormy sea. 
Lifted like that it seemed to possess a kind of in- 
domitable pride that forbade compassion. She had 
valiant stuff in her, this child! 

“But I like to know — I like to hear. My silly 
adventures at Souk-Ahras must have sounded simply 
absurd to you.” 

“No, they didn’t. They took me into another 
world, out of Pentarn.” She raised frank, grey 
eyes to his. 

“Well, I hope some day you’ll see that other 
world!” 

“I might be glad to come back again. I should 
like not to hate it.” 

“Ah, so you do hate it?” 

“I think because I want a holiday. I feel tired 
and nervous.” 

“I’m not surprised,” he observed grimly; “but is 


42 URSULA FINCH 

it impossible, Miss Finch? I mean — couldn’t it be 
managed?” 

She shook her head. “There’s no one to take 
my place. They’d all be miserably uncomfortable 
left only to Jenny.” 

“And I think they ought to be made to endure 
their discomfort for a few weeks.” 

Ursula was silent. He knew nothing then of her 
father’s temper when things went awry, especially 
at meals. Well, she couldn’t talk about that, even 
to him. She did not blame her father, she knew 
exactly all he had to worry him, and how wretched 
he was under that ever-increasing burden of debt. 
Mr. Willmot could easily hear the gossip of the vil- 
lage if he wished to learn further details about 
them. 

“It’s so confoundedly selfish of them!” he added 
indignantly. 

It struck her as strange that there was actually 
a sound of anger in his voice. 

“Oh, you mustn’t say — you mustn’t think that, 
you know,” she cried eagerly. “I shouldn’t like to 
give you a wrong impression.” 

“If I have that impression, my dear Miss Finch, 
it’s not on account of anything you have said. It’s 
from what I’ve seen since I came to Pentarn.” 

“But you’ve seen so little of any of us. And the 
people here are nearly all Daphne’s friends, not 
mine !” 

Daphne’s friends — yes, had he known it, this 
prince among men, he was the only one who had 
ever taken any notice of herself in preference to 
Daphne. He, of more worth than all, had been the 
solitary, wonderful exception. He had stopped, as 
it were, to pity her with the kind of wholesome, un- 
derstanding, friendly compassion that could never 
wound. But it was a dangerous experiment for a 


URSULA FINCH 


43 


young man to make. It aroused in Ursula’s heart 
a sense of passionate gratitude. For despite her 
humility she knew that she possessed gifts that had 
been denied to Daphne. She had — although of this 
she was scarcely aware — starved intellectual talents 
that she had little leisure to nourish. She had no 
means to buy the books she wished to read. Those 
in her father’s study — shabby standard works grow- 
ing yellow with years, the novels and poems of the 
mid-nineteenth century and even a few earlier ones 
— she had read diligen^ from cover to cover. Yes, 
from Keats to Francis Thompson. There was noth- 
ing later than Dickens in the whole collection except 
that solitary, prized volume of Francis Thompson. 
She did not think any one had looked inside it ex- 
cept herself. Some rare visitor to the rectory had 
left it behind. And there were things in it to stir 
the heart. He spoke a different language from the 
rest, different from Tennyson, suave and melodious; 
different from Browning, rough, passionate, often 
unmusical, but how beautiful! A touch of Keats in 
the splendor of the language; here and there some- 
thing that moved you like Shelley with its unexpected 
wonder, only differing utterly in its profound, dog- 
matic spirituality from anything Shelley ever wrote. 
But Milton, yes, he was a descendant of Milton in 
his attempts to open the very heavens to you — the 
same bewildering grandeur. Only always himself. 
The critics compared him to Crashaw, but there 
was, alas, no copy of Crashaw old or new at Pen- 
tarn. 

Suddenly she found herself talking to Humphrey 
of these things. Her enthusiasm delighted him. 
It seemed to change her, to make her seem suddenly 
more alive. It took her mind from the dreadful 
contemplation of those sordid tasks of hers. 

“Oh, I’m sure I’ve got two copies of Crashaw,” 


44 


URSULA FINCH 


Humphrey told her, “he’s a tremendous favorite of 
mine. I’ll send you one. And I’ve got lots of the 
moderns as well. You ought to know them if you 
care about poetry. There’s Flecker — ” He be- 
gan to quote, scraps here and there from his own 
favorites. He was delighted to hit upon a subject 
that interested her. For he liked Ursula, he admired 
her unusual type, so dark, almost un-English, and he 
wanted her to forget her shyness and embarrass- 
ment when she was with him. He knew hundreds 
of girls of Daphne’s type, they grew in every draw- 
ing-room, and although it was seldom one saw such 
perfect and accurate beauty as hers, he knew many 
that were far more brilliant and accomplished. She 
did not interest him ; he guessed her to be selfish and 
ambitious. Ursula, on the other hand, interested 
him enormously. He saw that she looked tired and 
overdone, and good-naturedly he tried to cheer her, 
unaware of any danger to her. Unaware, too, that 
even now, in her eager gratitude, she was fashioning 
a saint’s halo to adorn his fair head. 

“Will you come back to-morrow?” he asked, as 
she made a movement as if to get up, preparatory to 
departure. 

She reflected. “Monday? Oh, no, I shan’t have 
a moment. Monday’s almost the worst day of all.” 

“Tuesday?” 

“I go into St. Faith’s to do the shopping.” 

Tuesday had its own particular trials and anxi- 
eties, the bitter task of making one shilling go as 
far as three. And whatever his mood, she had to 
approach her father and obtain the necessary money 
from him. It pierced her heart sometimes to see 
the look upon his thin face when he gave it to her. 
She was the only one who saw in Mr. Finch an ob- 
ject meet for compassion. His difficulties were 
enormous, and his wife and Daphne thwarted him 


URSULA FINCH 


45 


at every turn by their careless, sinful extravagance. 

“We may meet there, then. I haven’t explored 
St. Faith’s properly yet. And I can help you to 
carry all your parcels.” 

“Oh, but you must not trouble,” she said. 

“Mustn’t I?” said Humphrey. 

He watched her as she walked swiftly along the 
path that rimmed the cliff like a narrow, twisting 
ribbon. He did not offer to walk home with her, 
for he shrewdly suspected that if their meetings 
were discovered they would be put a stop to. And 
he wanted to have a few more talks — about Cra- 
shaw and Francis Thompson for instance — with 
quiet little Ursula Finch. 


CHAPTER V 


D aphne's visit to the Abbey had been so success- 
ful that she had very quickly recovered from 
her momentary disappointment and ^ annoyance, 
caused by the absence of Humphrey Willmot. His 
mother explained that he was very fond of going 
for long, solitary walks, and when thus engaged, he 
often forgot all about the time. Probably he 
wouldn’t be back till quite late. She spoke of her 
son in a way that suggested she found him quite 
perfect. 

Daphne was far too wise to display any but the 
most conventional degree of disappointment. After 
tea, when Mr. Willmot had withdrawn to his study, 
Mrs. Willmot proposed that she should sing to her. 
She had brought her songs, of course. The piano 
wasn’t a bad one, Humphrey said, he had played 
on it for some time yesterday evening after dinner. 
Thus encouraged Daphne sang song after song. 
She had a really beautiful voice and she looked very 
pretty when she was singing. She liked her music 
less as an art than as a means’to an end. Her talent 
gave her significance. Afterward when she came 
back to the sofa where Mrs. Willmot was sitting, 
that lady touched her hand and said kindly: 

“You must stay with us in London. We shall be 
going there in June for a month or six weeks. And 
then if you ever care to sing for a charity, I know 
the Duchess of Flint would let you sing at her house. 
She never has any one but the most talented ama- 
teurs; she is the patroness par excellence of young 
singers, especially girls.” 

Daphne’s blue eyes shone with joy. She seemed 
to see doors opening into delicious luxurious places. 
46 


URSULA FINCH 


47 


“Oh, would she really ask me, do you think?” 
she said, and her fair face was all suffused and 
glowing with a very genuine emotion. ‘‘That’s just 
the kind of thing Tve always dreamed of. But I 
am twenty-four, and I have never sung anywhere 
except at a penny-reading in the school here.” 

‘‘We must change all that,” said Mrs. Willmot 
kindly. She loved to act as fairy godmother to 
beautiful young girls. “I hope to fix a date for you 
to come to me very soon. But I shall write to the 
duchess about it first. She’s a great friend of 
Humphrey’s, by the way; he stays with them in 
Scotland nearly every year.” 

This remark seemed to reveal to Daphne some- 
thing of Humphrey’s social importance. He could 
give her everything — everything. He would take 
her away from Pentarn. She was almost glad now 
that he had not been present this afternoon; had 
he been there she could not have had this thrilling 
talk with his mother. 

“It would be very kind of you,” she said. “I 
have never spent a season in London, though I have 
always longed to do so.” 

Her enthusiasm delighted Mrs. Willmot, who 
foresaw for Daphne a very real success. It was 
strange that Humphrey should have deliberately 
absented himself just when she was expected. He 
was such an admirer of beauty. She was sure that 
she had told him Daphne was to come to tea and 
had promised to bring some songs. She kept hop- 
ing and hoping that he would return, at least in 
time to walk home with her. 

Daphne left, however, before he returned, for 
Humphrey remained on the cliff for a considerable 
time after Ursula’s departure. He felt that he did 
not wish to encounter Daphne just then, with 
Ursula’s innocent revelations still so fresh in his 


48 


URSULA FINCH 


mind. This poor little girl slaved so that Daphne 
might appear like a brilliant and beautiful butterfly, 
daintily and delicately dressed. She was out to con- 
quer, and conquer she assuredly would, sooner or 
later, with her very striking loveliness, that charm 
and grace of hers. But he preferred this little, 
brave, valiant Cinderella who had not even time to 
pity herself as so many young girls would have done, 
condemned as she was to what he considered an al- 
most degrading slavery. One thing, however, he 
assured himself she should no longer lack. She 
should, have all the books, all the poetry, she wanted. 
When the rare moments of leisure came her mind 
should not want for sustenance. He would send 
them to her to-morrow. He had quantities that he 
never looked at, besides he could always buy them 
again. 

Daphne arrived at the rectory in excellent spirits. 
She was too late for the evening service, and as she 
came up the path she could hear the strains of 
Abide with Me issuing from the church. When the 
fancy took her she would lead the choir and even 
attend the practices, but there had been a fuss with 
her father over this because he had discovered a 
flirtation between her and a young artist from St. 
Faith’s who had come over to sing, and Daphne had 
withdrawn in order, as she expressed it, to “pay 
him out.” 

Every one else was at church except Mrs. Finch, 
who was resting on the drawing-room sofa; but 
Daphne required no other audience than her mother, 
to whom she eagerly poured out the events of the 
afternoon. 

“But, of course, I shall have to have lots of new 
clothes,” she added. 

“I am sure I do not know where they are to come 
from then,” said Mrs. Finch fretfully; “your last 


URSULA FINCH 


49 

winter’s furs are not paid for, and I have not even 
dared show the bill to your father.” 

“Well, I simply must have clothes or it will be no 
use my going,” said Daphne imperturbably. “Fve 
never had such a chance before. Of all the rich 
young men I have ever seen this Willmot is far the 
best-looking and the most agreeable. Generally, if 
they have any money they are short or fat or ugly.” 

“It will be a fearful expense,” said Mrs. Finch 
with a sigh. “I don’t see how I am to get the money. 
We owe so much as it is.” 

“It will all be paid some day,” said Daphne cheer- 
fully; “this visit will be a kind of investment. I am 
to sing at the Duchess of Flint’s. Mrs. Willmot did 
not say much, but I am sure she liked my singing.” 

“She seems disposed to be very kind to you,” said 
Mrs. Finch; “but if you do go. Daphne, although I 
don’t see how it can possibly be managed, you must 
remember it’s the last chance I can give you. You 
must promise me not to waste your time flirting with 
silly, impecunious young men. You must learn to 
concentrate — ” 

“On Humphrey Willmot?” asked Daphne, with 
a brilliant smile. 

To win his mother over to her side seemed to her 
half the battle. She had always found mothers 
more difficult to deal with than their sons. 

“If not upon him upon someone equally eligible. 
We can not go on for another year unless you make 
a good marriage.” 

“I will promise anything you like if you will only 
contrive to get me some clothes,” said Daphne. 
“Ursula will have heaps of time to overhaul my 
things and run me up a few blouses between now 
and then.” 

“It was very odd of this young Willmot going out 
this afternoon just when you were expected. It does 


URSULA FINCH 


50 

not look as if he were so very much taken with you.” 

“He has only seen me two or three times,” replied 
Daphne with undiminished complacency. She was 
always perfectly frank with her mother, and they 
had few secrets from each other. “It will be differ- 
ent when I stay there. He is not at all the sort of 
man to be bowled over at first sight. He must be 
perfectly aware of his own value, and probably he 
is sick of being run after and so is on his guard.” 

“I have always wanted you to have a season in 
London,” said Mrs. Finch, who believed her daugh- 
ter’s attractions to be matchless. “Of course, it is 
very hard on you to spend your life down here. It 
is not even as if it were a good neighborhood with 
several large houses and plenty going on.” She 
looked at Daphne fondly. 

“By the way,” said Daphne suddenly, “what has 
come over Ursula?” 

“Come over Ursula ? Why, what do you mean ?” 

“She’s looked so queer this last day or two. Ex- 
cited — and happy — as if she’d heard good news.” 

“I haven’t noticed anything,’’ replied Mrs. Finch. 

“If it hadn’t been steady-going, old Ursula, one 
would have said that she had suddenly fallen in 
love,” said the astute Daphne. 

“I hope Ursula has no time for such nonsense,” 
said Mrs. Finch severely. 

“She might. People do, you know,” said Daphne. 
“I’m going to keep my eye on her.” 

“You need not be afraid. I am sure Ursula has 
no time to think of such things,” repeated Mrs. 
Finch. She did not know why, but Daphne’s words 
filled her with misgiving. 

“If there is anything I shall find it out,” said 
Daphne. “She will have to be very busy these next 
few weeks. She has been a perfect age over that 
last blouse, and it isn’t done yet.” 


URSULA FINCH 


51 


Daphne honestly believed that Ursula preferred 
to cook and sew and iron, so admirably and with 
such energetic industry did she perform these house- 
hold tasks. She never stopped to notice her sister’s 
tired and harassed look, especially when some extra 
dressmaking had fallen to her lot. There was no 
minor tragedy to Daphne in the monotonous whirr 
of the sewing-machine in Ursula’s tiny work-room — 
a sound that frequently continued long after every- 
one else had gone to bed. It was Ursula’s life, and 
Daphne did not stop to ask herself whether she en- 
joyed it or not. 

Monday, as Ursula had informed Humphrey, 
was almost the worst day of the whole week. It 
seemed as if it insisted upon her paying in long hours 
of extra exertion for the brief respite afforded by 
Sunday. She was busy on the following day prepar- 
ing the luncheon with such inexperienced assistance 
as Jenny could offer, when her mother’s voice callec^ 
her. She ran down the flagged passage into the hall 
and saw Mrs. Finch standing there with a parcel in 
her hand. Her face wore an unusually stern and 
annoyed expression. 

“A parcel for you, Ursula,” she said; “one of the 
servants from the Abbey has just left it. Open it 
at once. I am sure there has been some mistake and 
that it is intended for Daphne.” 

Ursula was hot and flushed from the effects of 
the fire. She looked at her mother almost in terror. 
A parcel for her? For the moment she had for- 
gotten Humphrey’s promise to send her Crashaw’s 
poems, nor had she dreamed of his sending her 
books in this way. She fumbled nervously with the 
string. The knots were obdurate. Something in 
her mother’s manner made her feel as if she had 
done wrong. 

“I can’t think what it can be,” she said. 


52 


URSULA FINCH 


Mrs. Finch watched her with hard eyes. 

The knots were all undone now and Ursula re- 
moved the paper. Half a dozen slim books fell out. 
Mrs. Finch took up one of thern and opened it. 

“Poetry!” she said, suppressing a slight snort. 
“Fm glad you have time to fill your head with all 
this rubbish. I know I haven’t. Who sent you 
these books, Ursula?” 

But Ursula hardly heard her. She was reading 
a little note, enclosed in the parcel. It was — won- 
der of wonders I — from Humphrey himself. 

“Dear Miss Finch, do please accept my Crashaw. 
He isn’t new but you mustn’t mind that. I take the 
liberty of sending you a few other duplicates in the 
hope that they may interest you. Yours sincerely, 
Humphrey Willmot.” 

Mrs. Finch held out her hand. Ursula put the 
note into it nervously. There was no escape, for 
she was still treated as a child, but she knew that it 
could never mean so much to her when other eyes 
had read it. 

She began to make excuses. “There’s no harm. 
A few books — I’ve wanted them so.” She was terri- 
fied lest they should be taken away from her, per- 
haps sent back. This thought was too terrible, and 
instinctively she gathered them up, string, paper and 
all, and held them tightly. 

“I hope you didn’t ask him for them?” said Mrs. 
Finch. 

“Oh, no, we were talking, and he found out I’d 
never read Crashaw, and he said I ought to know 
the moderns too.” 

Daphne’s warning speech of yesterday came back 
very forcibly then to Mrs. Finch’s mind. 

“Pray when did you have this conversation with 
Mr. Willmot?” she inquired. She was very angry, 
and her anger was deepened by the fact that Hum- 


URSULA FINCH 


53 


phrey, who had absented himself from home when 
Daphne was expected to tea, had been, on the other 
hand, very much aware of Ursula. He had even 
written to her and sent her books — a quite unheard- 
of thing. 

“We met — on the cliff,” said Ursula desperately. 
A lump came into her throat. She was certain that 
now those meetings had been discovered they would 
be arbitrarily stopped. Perhaps she would never 
be allowed to see him again. 

“Ursula,” said Mrs. Finch, “I am extremely an- 
noyed with you. And I am not going to allow you 
to waste your time talking to young men on the cliffs 
or reading a lot of foolish poetry. However, you 
will have very little opportunity for doing either 
these next few weeks. Daphne is going to stay with 
the Willmots in town next month, and you will have 
a great deal of sewing to do. She tells me you have 
dawdled over that last blouse of hers, and no won- 
der, if you have been wasting your time in this silly, 
undignified way.” 

“Oh, I promise I will only read the books in my 
spare time,” said Ursula, thankful to discover that 
her newly-found treasures were not going to be im- 
mediately confiscated. 

“At your age I never had any spare time,” said 
Mrs. Finch, severely. 

“It is true. I don’t have very much. Especially 
when there is sewing to do for Daphne.” 

The letter was safely back in her keeping. She 
was about to move toward the stairs when Mrs. 
Finch called her back. 

“Ursula, I must forbid you to meet this man on 
the cliffs. I did not believe that you were capable 
of such conduct. You are not to do it again. Why 
did you never mention it ? Have you been meeting 


54 


URSULA FINCH 


him often?’’ Her stern eyes were fixed upon Ursula 
as if demanding the truth from her. 

“I have met him twice. I did not say anything 
about it — it did not seem necessary. I am sure that 
it won’t happen again.” 

To-morrow, perhaps, she would meet him in St. 
Faith’s, and then she would explain to him that she 
could not come any more. Perhaps, it would not 
even be necessary to say so. He must already be 
bored with her ignorance. It was impossible he 
could wish to continue those talks. Yet, he had re- 
membered to send her the books — so many more 
than she had ever expected — and he had written a 
kind, friendly little note, exactly like himself. 

“I shall take good care that it does not happen 
again,” said Mrs. Finch dryly. 

Ursula went slowly upstairs, the tears gathering 
in her eyes. Mrs. Finch entered the dining-room, 
which served at the rectory as a general sitting room, 
and approached Daphne, who was curled up on the 
window seat, reading a novel. The window com- 
manded a view of the shabby, unlovely approach to 
the front door. Daphne liked it on that account, 
and she knew, too, that her hair looked splendid 
against the faded rag of green curtain. 

Mrs. Finch shut the door after her. 

“Daphne, that young Willmot has sent Ursula 
some books,” she said. 

Daphne put down her novel and gazed at her 
mother, interested but quite unperturbed. 

“Books? What sort of books?” 

“Poetry,” said Mrs. Finch briefly. “And a note. 
Short, of course, but quite friendly.” 

“I told you there was something up with Ursula. 
What a pity we didn’t send her abroad with Mrs. 
Burton’s sister with the unpronounceable name I” 
She returned to her novel. 


URSULA FINCH 


55 


‘I can’t spare her. I really don’t know what’s 
to be done.” Mrs. Finch sat down and folded her 
hands. Annoyance from such a quarter seemed to 
her like an injury. Ursula had always been so amen- 
able. A useful ghost that went hither and thither, 
performing tasks that everyone else refused to un- 
dertake, not a person who walked on the cliffs 
with young men and received books and notes. The 
offence would have been less if the young man in 
question had been other than Humphrey. 

Mrs. Finch had a profound and not uncommon 
distrust of all poets and poetry. All that she knew 
of the lives of poets — with the notable exceptions 
of Tennyson and the Brownings — only served to 
confirm her opinion that they were unhappy, unre- 
liable, generally immoral people, wholly unfit for 
respectable drawing-rooms. Most of them died 
young, which was perhaps a relief to their relations. 
She had a lesser but still very sharply defined dis- 
trust of those people who professed to like reading 
poetry. She had hoped that Ursula had “got over 
all that silly nonsense long ago.” As a child she 
had been fond of reading and copying verses and 
learning them by heart, sometimes to the detriment 
of her other studies. And now here was Mr. Will- 
mot sending her these books — delicately-bound, 
modern books, printed on hand-made paper. It 
was so unlike anyone to send books to Ursula. 

She was impatient at Daphne’s calm indifference. 

“Of course, it’s your own fault. Daphne. You 
told me that you were walking about St. Faith’s 
with young Carter that day you met him. And I 
dare say he has heard gossip.” There was acerbity 
in her tone. 

“Perhaps he has,” said Daphne calmly; “but one 
can’t help these things.” 

Her placidity often restored Mrs. Finch to good- 


URSULA FINCH 


56 

humor. She was not naturally an ill-tempered 
woman, but poverty, a large family, an irritable hus- 
band had reduced her to an almost chronic condition 
of “crossness.” 

“Daphne, do put down that novel. You really 
mustn’t allow Ursula to step in like this and ruin 
your chances. He is certainly never likely to marry 
her, but a man who admires Ursula will never think 
seriously of you.” 

“I know that,” said Daphne, “but I really can’t 
begin to be jealous of Ursula. I’ve told you the 
only plan is to get rid of her, and you won’t hear 
of that. How in the world has she been able to see 
him?” 

“They met on the cliff,” said Mrs. Finch briefly. 
“I have told her it is not to happen again. I can’t 
possibly send her away, we are quite enough at sixes 
and sevens as it is. It would be a thousand times 
worse without her. I am not strong enough to help 
in the kitchen and look after Jenny. And your 
father — you know what he is like if things get too 
— too muddled!” 

“I know only too well what he is like,” said 
Daphne, satirically; “and so does everyone in Pen- 
tarn. Aubrey Carter refuses to put a foot inside 
the place because he was so rude to him about me.” 

“Dear Daphne, I wish you wouldn’t discuss your 
father with these young men!” 

“What else is there to talk about? Papa is such a 
fruitful topic, you can’t deny that,” said Daphne, 
with calm, almost unconscious disrespect. “We can 
not possibly hide our family skeleton, can we?” 

“Ursula looked quite confused when I made her 
open the parcel in front of me,” said Mrs. Finch, 
reverting to her grievance. 

“Poor Ursula — she hadn’t the courage to refuse,” 


URSULA FINCH 


57 


said Daphne. “You would never have got me to 
do it.” 

“Ursula is different. And she is younger. She 
was always sentimental. I dare say she is letting 
herself fall in love with him.” 

“She must learn to keep to her role of Cinderella 
until I am married,” said Daphne; “after that she 
can do exactly as she likes as far as Fm concerned. 
Do not think, however, that if I marry a rich man 
I shall divide my dress-allowance among you all 
like the heroine of a novel. I shall want every 
penny I can get for myself. I do not at all see why 
I should give it to Ursula or Nicholas !” 

Mrs. Finch knew from experience that there was 
no exaggeration in this speech. Daphne was utterly 
selfish, had reduced that quality to such a fine art 
that she had almost contrived to invest it with a 
certain attraction. Daphne married would be 
Daphne utterly lost to Pentarn. But her departure 
would reduce household expenditure by nearly half. 
Their income could then perhaps be made to cover 
the strict necessaries of life. There was always 
the fear that Nicholas might run into debt, but so 
far nothing of the kind had occurred. 

Luncheon was brought into the room by Jenny, 
who flung the dishes on the table with such vigor 
that they ran an imminent risk of not remaining 
there. A bell sounded, and Mr. Finch appeared. 
Ursula and Ruth followed, and took their seats at 
the table in silence. Daphne gave her sister a pierc- 
ing scrutinizing glance which made her color guiltily 
to the roots of her hair. 

Mr. Finch was a short, swart man, thin, angry- 
looking, with a harassed air that compelled pity. 

“What is this about the Burtons and Ursula?” 
he burst forth angrily. “Burton has written to me 
this morning about parish matters, and he adds at 


URSULA FINCH 


58 


the end that he is so sorry Ursula didn’t see her way 
to accepting his sister-in-law’s offer to return to 
Rome with her. What do you mean by refusing any 
offer without first consulting me? If Burton had 
said this instead of writing it, what sort of a fool 
do you think I should have looked? I, who had 
never heard of it 1” 

“It was only last week,” said Mrs. Finch nerv- 
ously, “and we came to the conclusion that we 
couldn’t spare Ursula. She has her home duties.” 

“It was not a very delectable post,” said Daphne, 
who could always interpose a calm and temperate 
explanation. “Madame Garroni is Mrs. Burton’s 
sister and she has two brats, half-Italian and half- 
English. She is trying to find a nursery-governess 
for them. Mrs. Burton thought, of course, we were 
all as anxious to get rid of Ursula as you seem to 

f” 


Her cool, ironical tone always exasperated her 
father. 

“Hold your tongue, miss! If I have any more 
of your impertinence you shall leave the room 1 
Ursula, I am the best judge as to what you ought to 
do. One mouth less to feed will make a consider- 
able difference to our weekly bills. You would be 
off my hands — you would be earning money — ” 

“And in the meantime we should all be slowly 
poisoned by Jenny,” observed Daphne. “It would 
cost you more to keep a cook than to have Ursula 
here.” 

“I do not intend to keep a cook. If help is wanted 
you shall give it yourself. You do nothing from 
morning till night except fool about with young 
men. Ursula, what made ip your nose 



at Mrs. Burton’s offer? 
from you!” 


some sense 


“Mamma refused for me. I didn’t know any- 
thing about it till afterward,” said Ursula. 


URSULA FINCH 


59 


“I should pity you if you had to look after the 
Garroni children, if they are half as vulgar as their 
mother,” observed Daphne, ‘‘but since papa is so 
keen about it I am sure it is not too late. There 
can be no competition for such a post as that ! 
Madame Garroni offers the dazzling salary of 
twenty-five pounds a year, and you will have the 
sole charge of her two children, day and night. I 
would not do it myself for a fortune!” 

‘‘You had better not talk like that. Soon I shan’t 
be able to keep any of you idling here at home. 
Especially you. Daphne, you cost more than all the 
others put together.” He eyed her in disgust. 
“That is a new blouse you have on. You know I’ve 
forbidden any of you to buy new clothes this sum- 
mer!” His eyes snapped with anger. 

“Ursula made it from some silk I had. It hardly 
cost anything.” 

“So you had the silk, eh? How long had you 
had it? I suppose you bought it the last time you 
went in to Penzance!” 

“I don’t know how long I’ve had it. It’s such a 
bore remembering silly, unnecessary things like 
that!” 

“Well, I shall write to Burton at once and tell 
him I was never consulted. This Madame Garroni 
had better come over and see Ursula. If they can 
fix it up, the sooner she goes the better!” 

Ursula’s heart sank. A fortnight ago — a week 
ago — she would have welcomed the prospect as an 
incredible liberation from all her present drudgery. 
But now — with Humphrey’s kind, friendly note re- 
posing in her little desk upstairs, waiting to be read 
and re-read, together with his wonderful gift books. 
Books to be read and loved and learned by heart. 
She suddenly felt that it would break her heart to 
leave Pentarn. 

Daphne laughed carelessly. 


6o 


URSULA FINCH 


“Ursula has a young man, so naturally she doesn’t 
want to go,” she observed, her blue eyes fixed upon 
her sister’s face. 

Ursula, sensitive and reserved, felt that her very 
heart had been bared to public view, to public ridi- 
cule. 

“Ursula? A young man? What do you mean?” 
Mr. Finch turned angrily toward his second daugh- 
ter. Nothing annoyed him so much as the thought 
of any of his children wishing to marry. He was 
always rude to Daphne’s many admirers. 

“It is only young Mr. Willmot; he has taken to 
sending her books of poetry,” said Daphne, de- 
lighted at the storm she had raised. It would give 
Ursula a salutary lesson. 

“Books of poetry? Impertinence! I hope you 
sent them back. I will not allow you to receive 
presents from young men I Where are these 
books?” 

“They are upstairs,” said Ursula, miserably. “I 
will send them back if you wish.” She had become 
quite pale. Daphne was cruel, was torturing her — 
Daphne, who loved that kind of persiflage. 

She was unable then to see Humphrey in his true 
proportion and perspective. She had not played 
with love for years as her sister had played with it, 
enjoying it as a beautiful, perilous pastime that 
some day might conceivably hurt her. She had 
thought of it, dreamed of it, with secret wonder and 
longing. Thus Humphrey’s sudden coming had 
been to her like the rising of some splendid, un- 
expected star. 

“I have seen them, they are only rubbish,” said 
Mrs. Finch, “quite small, unimportant books. I 
suppose he wanted to get rid of them. In any case 
we can not quarrel with the Willmots — they are in- 
clined to be so kind to Daphne, and I feel they will 


URSULA FINCH 


6i 


be useful friends for her to have.” She had not 
as yet mentioned Mrs. Willmot’s invitation to her 
husband, knowing that it would be unlikely to meet 
with his approval. 

“I am accustomed to Daphne’s being a subject 
of gossip for the whole village,” said Mr. Finch, 
“ but it is a new departure for Ursula. I imagined 
that I had at least one sensible daughter, but it seems 
that all women are hopelessly alike. This man is 
in a very different position from you, Ursula, and 
sooner than that your name should be coupled with 
his I should prefer you to earn you own livelihood 
by going to Rome with these Garroni people.” 

“If Ursula goes to Rome she will become a 
Roman Catholic!” said Daphne, with a light laugh. 

“If she does she will never see the inside of this 
house again, and so I warn her,” said Mr. Finch. 
“Your remarks are in their usual bad taste. Daphne. 
I would rather see my daughter dead than a Catho- 
lic. But I know Ursula would be on her guard 
against their blasphemous fables and dangerous 
deceits.” 

“Madame Garroni is not a Catholic,” said Mrs. 
Finch. “Her husband is not at all religious and he 
lets her bring up the children as she likes. There 
is sometimes a fuss with his old mother about it, 
Mrs. Burton tells me.” 

Daphne felt triumphant; she felt that her point 
was won. There was no doubt that Ursula would 
go to Rome and probably go very soon. What 
would it matter if the food were so badly cooked as 
to be uneatable? There would be no more of these 
secret meetings with Humphrey on the cliff. And 
she herself would soon be far away from Pentarn, 
enjoying herself in London, and teaching Humphrey 
to forget Ursula. 


CHAPTER VI 


“T SHALL write to Mrs. Burton to say we should 
like to reconsider the matter,” said Mrs. 
Finch that afternoon, when she was alone with her 
daughters. Tea had just been brought in and 
Ursula was engaged in pouring it out. “I am afraid 
we were selfish in thinking of our own comfort in- 
stead of the great advantages you would reap, 
Ursula, by going abroad. I am sure if anyone had 
given me the chance of going to Italy at your age 
I should have jumped at it.” 

Daphne shot a quick glance at her sister. Ursula 
was so reserved that it was probable they would 
never learn whether she suspected the real reason 
for this abrupt change of front. If Mrs. Finch had 
been really determined to keep her at home she 
could very easily have persuaded her husband that 
far from being an economy the project would en- 
tail heavy expenses, since It was impossible that 
Jenny could do all the work of the house without 
competent assistance. But Ursula made no response 
to her mother’s speech, and in her tacit acquiescent 
attitude one could only feel that she had relinquished 
her fate into their hands without striking a blow to 
avert it. For years she had accepted everything 
“lying down,” she had uttered no complaint, she 
had performed the tasks they had given her to the 
best of her ability, and now she was perfectly ready 
to leave home at their bidding. And in a sense she 
would have a measure of freedom, of independence ; 
at the worst she would only exchange one form of 
servitude for another. No one could ask of her that 
she should sit up night after night sewing and stitch- 
6a 


URSULA FINCH 63 

ing when her heavy day-time tasks were accom- 
plished. 

“I shall send Ruth over with a letter in the morn- 
ing asking them to come to tea,” continued Mrs. 
Finch. 

Ursula looked up quickly. 

“But to-morrow I must go into the town to do the 
shopping. I am often back late,” she said. 

Were they going to cheat her of to-morrow? 

“Oh, very well, then I will suggest Wednesday,” 
said the unsuspecting Mrs. Finch. 

After tea Ursula went up stairs. She must finish 
Daphne’s blouse. She took her work and sat down 
near the open window of the tiny attic that was set 
apart as a sewing-room. Presently she heard a 
footstep on the stairs and Mrs. Finch came into the 
room. She rarely penetrated to those regions, and 
Ursula wondered with a faint misgiving why she 
had come now. 

“If we really settle for you to go, Ursula, the 
sooner your plans are made the better.” 

“Yes, mamma,” said Ursula. 

“You will be glad now that you have had the 
charge of Ruth. It has given you a practical knowl- 
edge and experience of children, especially of little 
girls. Madame Garroni’s children are both girls, 
and you will find it quite easy to look after them and 
give them their first lessons.” 

“Yes, mamma,” said Ursula, again. 

“The change to Rome will be very good for you. 
I have often thought lately that you looked tired, 
depressed. Perhaps, you have had too much to do, 
but I don’t approve of girls being idle.” She 
paused, surveying her daughter. Did she guess any- 
thing? “We — we are thinking of your good. That 
is really our sole motive for sending you. At first, 
as you know, I felt I simply couldn’t spare you.” 


64 


URSULA FINCH 


“What made you change your mind, mamma?” 
asked Ursula, lifting her grey eyes to her mother’s 
face. 

“I felt that it was selfish to let you forego — such 
a very real advantage.” There was a slight hesita- 
tion in Mrs. Finch’s voice, for she resented the ques- 
tion. Had Ursula really any suspicions? 

“Supposing I’m not happy there — that I don’t 
suit them — I shall not be able to leave. I could not 
afford to pay the journey home, it is a very long 
one. 

“You must just make up your mind to be good 
and useful, and then there will be no difficulties of 
that sort,” said Mrs. Finch, in a tone that was meant 
to be bright and bracing but which carried no con- 
viction to her daughter’s ears. “Try to be very 
obliging to Madame Garroni. I hope you will be a 
great credit to us. I have always thought you could 
earn your own living.” 

Ursula went on sewing. Her deft fingers fitted 
the pieces together with a swift and practiced pre- 
cision. Her mother watched her closely. 

“Of course, the life will be different. The Gar- 
ronis live in a flat — they call it an apartment. I am 
sure it must be delightful!” 

Ursula made no answer. She had a sudden, in- 
tense desire to fling herself at her mother’s feet, 
and implore her not to send her thus away into exile. 
She couldn’t, couldn’t go. She would do twice as 
much, work twice as hard, if they would only let 
her stay in Pentarn. Hadn’t they often said that 
she saved them a second servant or at any rate from 
the necessity of getting a very experienced one? 
How would they get on with only a rough girl like 
Jenny? She remembered with dismay Humphrey’s 
horror at the proposal when she had mentioned it to 
him. He had reminded her that she knew nothing 


URSULA FINCH 


65 

of what life was like in such a milieu as the Gar- 
ronis\ But a glance at her mother’s face checked 
these mad, fantastic impulses. They would perhaps 
think, after what Daphne had so cruelly said, that 
she wished to stay at Pentarn on Humphrey’s ac- 
count. Any hardship would be preferable to that. 
She was thankful when her mother turned away and 
went toward the door. As she left the room she 
flung this parting injunction at Ursula. 

“I want you to make a good impression upon 
Madame Garrqni when she comes here to tea on 
Wednesday. Try to be as bright as possible. I 
don’t want you to look as if we were forcing you 
against your will. You quite understand, don’t you, 
Ursula?” 

“Yes, mamma,” said Ursula. 

When Mrs. Finch said, “You quite understand, 
don’t you?” she meant that she intended to be 
obeyed. When Ursula was a little girl and had 
failed to understand after being thus warned, it 
meant the prelude to punishment. She had always 
been punished more frequently and severely by her 
mother than any of the others, because Mrs. Finch 
had never comprehended Ursula’s silent acquies- 
cence and had attributed it to sullenness. “I simply 
can’t stand a sullen child,” she used to say by way 
of excuse. She could not see that the silence was the 
result of an unconquerable nervous fear from which 
Ursula had always suffered. It was so different 
from Daphne’s calm audacity and desire to have 
her own way at any cost, or from Nicholas’ wilful 
rebellion accompanied by outbursts of terrific anger. 

Still the words kindled a new hope in her heart. 
Perhaps, with all her efforts she would be unable to 
make that good impression upon Madame Garroni 
which should result in her being engaged as a nur- 
sery-governess. Perhaps, when she emerged to be 


66 


URSULA FINCH 


inspected the verdict would be against her. Madame 
Garroni would, no doubt, expect to see a bright girl 
of twenty-two, tall, fair and strong. One of those 
clever, capable, athletic English girls who are never 
fatigued nor depressed, nor sick nor sorry. Not a 
pale, thin, tired-looking person like herself. And 
she wasn’t really experienced, she knew nothing of 
children and their little ailments, except the small 
knowledge she had gleaned from looking after Ruth. 
They would surely want someone much more ex- 
perienced than that. 

She would see Humphrey to-morrow. Already 
her simple plans were made. She would start for 
St. Faith’s as soon after luncheon as possible and get 
her shopping done early. If Humphrey were in the 
little town she would certainly meet him, and if not, 
she would have time to go up to the top of the Island 
and look at the wonderful view over the Atlantic. 
Perhaps there would be no opportunity for her to 
do this again before she left Pentarn. It would be 
beautiful there if this fine weather lasted. A blue 
sky and bluer sea, and the coast-line painted in 
purple and gold and green, enclosing lovely little 
bays. But more than that she wanted achingly to 
see Humphrey, to tell him of the plans that were 
being made for her, to listen perhaps to words of 
encouragement from his lips. No man had ever 
affected her like this before. The men who ordi- 
narily visited the rectory took but scant notice of 
her. They came to see Daphne, to hear Daphne 
sing, to talk and laugh with Daphne. But Hum- 
phrey had never from the first seemed so profoundly 
aware of Daphne. He had singled out Ursula, and 
had talked to her, always with a kindliness and 
humor that set her at her ease, and made her almost 
forget temporarily the tasks that were waiting for 
her. She would think to herself with a sort of re^ 


URSULA FINCH 


67 

assurance: “I ought to be finishing Daphne’s 
blouse ; she’s quite right to say I’ve dawdled over it. 
It’ll take me three hours if I work hard, and I ought 
to have worked at it for an hour after lunch to-mor- 
row. There won’t be any time in the morning, but 
I can sit up at night. I can do it before I go to bed 
if I don’t go to bed till two.” Some plan of this 
kind was always necessary if the day’s occupations 
were too numerous, and when, as on this occasion, 
Ursula was going to snatch a delicious surreptitious 
hour of secret happiness, it salved her conscience to 
think she could pay for it by a few hours of real 
mortification. It would balance things, and no one 
would ever know. 

She tried to persuade herself that this threatened 
thing could never really happen ; they wouldn’t send 
her away from home with these almost unknown 
people. She had tried so hard to do her best, to 
accomplish all the tasks that had been allotted to 
her. If she had failed sometimes to come up to the 
high standard they exacted it was because time or 
strength had been lacking. Why did they try to im- 
press upon her now that they were seeking only her 
own good? They laid such stress upon the advan- 
tages that would accrue to her. It was the first 
time they had ever spoken of sending her away to 
earn her own living. And at first she hadn’t hated 
the idea. It was just now — when she was so happy 
— that it had come upon her like a disastrous thun- 
der-clap. And she ought to be grateful. She would 
have been grateful if it hadn’t been for that little, 
teasing, worrying conviction that they had some per- 
fectly different reason from any they had adduced 
for banishing her. It couldn’t be, of course, on 
account of the books and note that Humphrey had 
sent her. She had been quickly made to feel that 
she was in disgrace when she had opened the parcel 


68 


URSULA FINCH 


and disclosed its incriminating contents. She had 
been sharply reproved for meeting him. They were 
in the right there of course, for she had wilfully 
wasted her time according to their ideas. But surely 
it wasn’t for that they were going to punish her so 
heavily? 

Suddenly the door opened and Ruth came into 
the room. She flung her arms round Ursula’s neck 
and burst into tears. 

“Oh, Ursie, darling, they won’t do it, will they? 
Send you away, I mean? I shall die if you go 
away.” Sobs choked her utterance. 

Ursula put down the piece of white silk she was 
sewing, and took Ruth quietly in her arms. 

“You must be very brave, Ruth,” she said in her 
gentle voice, “or you will make a coward of me, 
too. If they do send me it will be because they 
think it will be good for me. We are very poor, 
and perhaps papa and mamma think it’s time for 
me to do some paid work. And some day I shall 
come back.” She touched Ruth’s rust-colored locks 
with her hand. 

“But Daphne — she’s allowed to spend and spend 
and she never does a thing to help anyone. She only 
sneers at us. Oh, Ursie, why do you go? Why 
don’t you tell them that you won’t? Rome’s such 
a long way off and you may be gone for years.” 
She clung convulsively to her sister. 

“Ruth, dear, you mustn’t cry like this, you’ll only 
make yourself ill.” 

“And I’ve got to take the letter asking these 
horrid people to come I I shall want to tear it up 
on the way and throw the pieces into the sea.” 

“That wouldn’t do any good. You’d only make 
things worse for both of us.” 

“It would be a protest,” said Ruth, lifting her 


URSULA FINCH 69 

head. “I simply can’t bear to see you submit so 
meekly, without a word!” 

“Dear Ruth, I should be sent just the same 
whether I rebelled or not. It’s always best to go 
quietly without a fuss.” 

It was more easy to be philosophic to Ruth than 
when she was meditating in solitude on the hardness 
of her destiny. 

“It’s Daphne’s doing, of course. Have you done 
anything to offend her, Ursie? I knew all the time 
she was saying nasty sarcastic things about the Gar- 
ronis that she was only egging papa on. She wants 
you to go, Ursie !” 

“Yes, I think she does, but it doesn’t matter. 
Papa and mamma both wish it, too. You’re in the 
minority, Ruth.” She smiled at her sister. “Let’s 
be very brave over this, darling. We won’t show 
them we’re hurt, will we ?” 

It was in this way that she calmed her sister, and 
the little, brave effort helped her, too. She must 
show a bright front for Ruth’s sake. Some of her 
high courage seemed to come back to her. She re- 
turned to her sewing with undiminished diligence. 


CHAPTER VII 


T uesday dawned beautifully bright, one of those 
delicious days of May when the wiVid blew 
from the south, and shook the bursting, red buds on 
the fuchsias as if entreating them to open and dis- 
close the purple tassels concealed within. Already 
the deep violet blossoms were starring the sturdy 
hedges of veronica, that paid so little, heed to the 
roughest of Atlantic gales. Tall fox-gloves were 
beginning to show their crimson spires, and a mist 
of veiling emerald hung over the Cornish woods. 
The young bracken was springing up, and here and 
there, deep in those very woods, were spread scented 
carpets of bluebells, like patches of sapphire almost 
mirroring the sky. The “sweet o’ the year” had 
come, and was filling the wild spaces with rich scents 
and wonderful growths, and heaping the Cornish 
orchards with the fairy snow of fruit-blossom. 

Ursula walked, as it seemed to her, on air, into 
St. Faith’s that afternoon. She accomplished her 
shopping without delay, and left all her parcels at 
the grocer’s until she should return to fetch them on 
her way home. It had gone to her heart to refuse 
Ruth, who had wished to accompany her, but not 
even for Ruth could she forego this meeting which 
might indeed prove to be her last, with Humphrey 
Willmot. She told herself that she would be certain 
to come across him, if he really remembered to walk 
into St. Faith’s to-day. 

She passed quickly through the narrow, crooked, 
picturesque alleys of the fishermen’s quarter. These 
sturdy, little stone houses were well sheltered by 
the Island from the brunt of the winter storms. 
They nestled in the very cup of the town with hills 

70 


URSULA FINCH 


71 


rising on three sides of them, while on the fourth 
the harbor pool, almost empty this afternoon of 
water, lay between them and the sea. The little 
mackerel boats, with their tawny sails, were lying 
high and dry as Ursula passed, and flocks of greedy, 
predatory sea-gulls waddled on the sands or on the 
very decks of the boats in search of food. They 
made patches of brilliant white in the sunshine. 

Ursula emerged at last from the streets and fol- 
lowed one of the steep paths that led to the summit 
of the Island. The green turf was broken by great 
boulders of rock, and she was careful to avoid tread- 
ing on the fishermen’s great nets that were lying 
there outspread to dry. There was no one about, 
it was really too early, and Ursula enjoyed the rare 
freedom, the sense of solitary enjoyment. When 
she reached the top of the hill she entered the little 
stone chapel, dedicated to St. Nicholas, and built 
on the site of a very early one, whose ruins had 
been demolished. 

Someone was standing within the building, his 
back turned to her. He was looking out of the win- 
dow that commanded a splendid view of the Atlan- 
tic, so blue and buoyant to-day under that wonder- 
ful May sky. 

He turned abruptly. 

“Is it really you. Miss Finch? I was wondering 
how long you would be over that very extensive 
shopping of yours!” 

He held out his hand, nor did he notice how hers 
trembled as it lay for that brief second in his. 

“It is all done,” said Ursula, “and so I thought 
I would come up here — I knew it would be beautiful 
to-day.” She sat down on a seat. The steep walk, 
combined with this sudden vision of Humphrey, had 
made her a little breathless. 

Humphrey Willmot went back to his old position 


72 


URSULA FINCH 


by the window. He saw the long, blue line of the 
Atlantic, and below him the waves were surging and 
boiling against the black fangs of the rocks, and 
throwing up delicious fountains of silver spray. 
Flocks of white clouds were sailing across the sky 
like immense pilgrim birds. In the distance he 
could see the great rock, honored with the title of 
island, upon which stood Pentarn lighthouse. 

“Since I came here I have been studying Catholic 
remains in Cornwall,” said Humphrey suddenly. 
“All these little-known Cornish saints. Why, the 
country was full of them — nearly every place has 
been called after Saint Something or Other I I’m 
trying to find out about them, what they did and 
why and how they died. They’re only remembered 
in the names of villages, and I suppose sometimes, 
but not always, on the altars of the Catholic 
Church.” 

“But you are not a Catholic?” she said, with a 
vague remembrance of all that Mr. Finch had said 
about the Roman Catholic Church on divers occa- 
sions from Pentarn pulpit. 

“No — I sometimes think I’m not anything at all. 
Do not be offended, but I am utterly out of sym- 
pathy now with anything the Church of England 
can offer me. I go sometimes, of course, to please 
my people. But I am much more at home in St. 
Peter’s.” 

He went to the door. 

“There’s a seat — let’s sit outside,” he said. 

Ursula rose obediently and joined him. 

“In Cornwall there are some of the earliest re- 
mains of British Christianity. I’m one of those who 
wish most sincerely that the old Faith had never 
been c^ast out. It tore away an integral part of Eng- 
land. It deprived her of part of her soul. She’ll 
recover it, I’m convinced, she’s too great not to do 


URSULA FINCH 


73 

so, she’s too good to lose it forever, but at what cost 
will she buy it back?” 

Ursula had never heard him speak so seriously 
before. She felt fascinated by the touch of warm 
emotion in his voice, the obvious sincerity of his 
words. 

Mr. Finch belonged to the evangelical school of 
English churchmen, and Rome and all that it stood 
for was to him anathema. He had far more in com- 
mon with those numerous ministers of varying 
forms of dissent, that were to be found in almost 
every Cornish parish, than with the High Church 
views supported by his brother-clergy at St. Faith’s. 
Ursula had thus never heard anyone speak of the 
Catholic Church with any reverence or admiration 
before. But Humphrey influenced her powerfully, 
and his words impressed her with a force she could 
not understand. She longed to agree with him — if 
she only dared — and to hear more, and yet she had 
the feeling that she was doing something very wrong 
in listening, and permitting herself to be swayed by 
words that were so opposed to all the standards that 
obtained at Pentarn. 

“I’m afraid I can’t expect you to agree with me, 
Miss Finch. You must have been brought up in 
other traditions.” 

“Yes,” she assented. “I know very little about 
any other religion, except what my father teaches.” 
Then with an effort she added, “You are the first 
person who has ever praised the Catholic religion 
in my hearing. And one hears it so often abused.” 

“We have forgotten even the stories of those 
saints who lived and died in Cornwall. St. la was 
martyred, it is supposed, at Hayle, but we know 
very little of her except the fact of her miraculous 
voyage from Ireland. Other countries don’t forget 
their saints like that! They remember them — they 


74 


URSULA FINCH 


are proud of them — they pray to them! All that 
has been swept away here by the Reformation, and 
it means loss, not gain to the country that has for- 
gotten them. Why, do you remember St. Francis’ 
companions wouldn’t let him die in Perugia, they 
took him back to Assisi for fear their beloved city 
should be deprived of his relics after his death? I 
like that — it appeals to me more than this deadly 
indifference 1” 

Ursula was silent. She was consciously yielding 
herself to his influence. 

“If I could only do something to rescue those 
splendid British saints from oblivion 1 It’s the 
difference it would make to us I’m thinking of. Even 
our forgetfulness can’t diminish their glory; they 
are wearing their haloes to-day in the Kingdom of 
God!” 

A cloud had for a moment darkened the sky and 
below them the bay of St. Faith’s had become slate- 
colored. In the silence that followed Humphrey’s 
passionate speech they could hear the steady, rhyth- 
mic breaking of the waves on the rocks below. 
Ursula never knew quite what it was that inspired 
her to say to him then: 

“Perhaps you will become a Catholic. These 
forgotten saints may pray for you.” 

“It would be very difficult for me to do it even 
if I wished to. You see I am an only son, and it 
would naturally meet with a good deal of opposi- 
tion.” 

“Oh, I was just envying you for being a man, for 
being able to do just as you liked!” she said. The 
words seemed to slip from her unawares. Was 
there really something Humphrey couldn’t do if 
he chose? 

She liked the sense of intimacy the conversation 
was giving her, the feeling that he was actually tak- 


URSULA FINCH 


75 

ing her into his confidence concerning spiritual 
things. 

But now his face clouded, and he said a trifle 
brusquely : 

“I question if any of us are so favorably placed 
as to be able to do that, Miss Finch.” 

The words had the speedy effect of sending 
Ursula back into her shell. Had she been guilty 
of an impertinence that deserved to be summarily 
checked by words that sounded, in contrast to his 
preceding ones, almost rough? A snubbing word 
could always overwhelm her, and produce that timid, 
awkward silence which in her childhood had met 
with swift, sharp rebuke. Suddenly, she became 
the repressed child again. Humphrey, utterly un- 
used to such nervous, morbid sensitiveness, did not 
in the least realize what he had done. His mind 
was in deep contemplation of his own position, and 
his thoughts were, at that moment, utterly removed 
from Ursula. Not that he was really thinking of 
becoming a Catholic, for he was not. But when- 
ever he let his mind toy with the idea he became 
aware that compunction for his parents and their 
woeful disappointment, should this thing happen, 
arrested him sharply from pursuing the train of 
thought to its logical conclusion. He was contin- 
ually stopping short of it, because the problem held 
no solution that was not beset with difficulties. He 
wondered why he had spoken of it now to Ursula, 
and had actually admitted to her, with something 
of bitterness, that even he, with such apparent 
liberty and independence, could not always choose 
the path that his own inclination might indicate. 
He was a singularly devoted son, but his position, 
like that of most only children, was by no means 
always easy. On the whole he had seldom dis- 
appointed his parents, maintaining toward them that 


URSULA FINCH 


76 

invariable attitude of affection, tinged with a kindly 
humor which they found so attractive in him. He 
had learned to conceal opinions and inclinations that 
were in direct opposition to their own, aware that 
they still regarded him, as they had always done, in 
the light of a brilliant, wayward child who must be 
governed by the lightest, most prudent of hands! 
And it was more than a little to his credit that he 
tactfully sustained the illusion, anxious to avoid hurt- 
ing their feelings and susceptibilities by a too violent 
demonstration of manly independence. 

If the chain pressed at all he could always go 
away on his eternal travels. 

The sea was a wonderful color now, grey, chryso- 
prase, jade, with shining glimpses of silver where 
the sunlight touched it. Far off a ship could be seen 
riding with a graceful swiftness, leaving a trail of 
purple smoke across the sky. 

“I have never thanked you for the books!” Ur- 
sula said suddenly. It had been an effort for her 
to speak and break the silence that had so enfolded 
them. “I didn’t write — I thought I should see you. 
It was very, very good of you to send so many. I 
can’t tell you how lovely I think them.” 

‘‘I’m very glad indeed that you found something 
in them to like,” he said, smiling at her enthusiasm. 

‘‘A great many things !” she assured him eagerly. 
‘‘Of course, I don’t have much time for reading ex- 
cept at night, or at a few odd moments in the day- 
time when I’m waiting for something to boil.” 

‘‘You mustn’t spoil your pretty eyes by burning 
the midnight oil too freely,” said Humphrey. 

No one had ever told Ursula that she had pretty 
eyes. They were certainly very pretty now as they 
looked up through black veiling lashes into Hum- 
phrey’s with a shy gratitude that touched him. 

‘‘May I really keep the books?” she said, ignor- 
ing his speech. 


URSULA FINCH 


77 


“Of course they are for you, if you care to have 
them. Pm afraid they are not worth much, but they 
are all I had down here.” 

“That is very kind of you. Because later on I 
think I may have more time to read them. You see 
I am going away. It isn’t quite settled, but very 
nearly.” 

“Going away, my dear Miss Finch? Why, I 
thought you told me that you never went away 1” 

“Only twice in my life — I hardly remember it. 
But this time it will be for ever so long.” 

She had wanted to tell him, to show him some-, 
thing too of the desolation that she felt at the pros- 
pect. Now his dismayed surprise astonished her. 

“For ever so long?” he repeated, looking at her 
with an incredulous almost angry astonishment. “I 
believe you are kidding me,” he went on, dropping 
into schoolboy slang. “Where are you going to? 
You are not going to be married, are you?” 

“Oh, no,” said Ursula, laughing at the bare idea 
of anything so inherently impossible. “I am going 
to Rome after all to be Madame Garroni’s nursery- 
governess if she still wants me. She hasn’t seen me 
yet, and perhaps she won’t like the look of me when 
she does.” 

“A nursery-governess?” he repeated. “You can- 
not be serious? I thought your mother had re- 
fused?” His dismayed eyes rested upon her with a 
sharp scrutiny. “They have no right to force you, 
if you don’t want to go. And you simply cannot 
want to go!” 

He had never been able to understand what sort 
of financial position the Finch family enjoyed. 
There was Daphne, for instance, charming and 
dainty, almost expensive in her attire; there were 
Mr. and Mrs. Finch, shabby and harassed-looking 
as if worried by continual efforts to keep the wolf 
from the door; there was Ruth, of whom he had 


URSULA FINCH 


78 

caught occasional glimpses, clad in skimpy cotton 
frocks and rough shoes such as the village children 
wore. And lastly there was Ursula, occupied 
almost ceaselessly with hard strenuous household 
tasks, her odd moments of leisure admittedly se- 
cured only when she was waiting for something to 
boil! 

But, of course, they were badly off. He ought 
to have known it. And Daphne, the beauty, was 
probably absorbing everything in order to win a 
prize in the marriage-market. Well, his mother 
would doubtless succeed in achieving that destiny of 
her if anyone could ! He almost hoped that it would 
be accomplished speedily, so as to release the 
younger sister from servitude. Several of his 
mother’s protegees had made quite excellent mar- 
riages ! 

“I told you the other day that mamma had re- 
fused it for me,” said Ursula, “but now she has 
changed her mind — she thinks it would be to my ad- 
vantage to go.” 

Such authority as held her in its strict discipline 
was an unknown quantity to Humphrey; it seemed 
to belong to those past ages of tyranny when par- 
ents were parents, and children, children — till they 
married or died. But Pentarn was so utterly out of 
the world that he felt modern notions could never 
exist there, they must certainly perish of anaemia in 
that blear, antiquated atmosphere! He began to 
realize her life, to wonder why, even now, it hadn’t 
begun to sour that soft sweetness of hers. She ac- 
cepted everything so simply. Creatures of habit, these 
women! Mr. and Mrs. Finch must possess quite 
mediaeval notions regarding the position of daugh- 
ters in the household. Ursula was little better than 
a servant if report spoke true, and all that she had 
told him of her life certainly confirmed it. Did she 


URSULA FINCH 


79 


regard with any envy the ease and pleasure that her 
sister had managed to secure? When he looked at 
Daphne he was wont almost to forget Ursula as a 
creature of sombre, inconspicuous plumage. But 
when he looked at Ursula, as he was looking now, 
he felt an odd resentment against Daphne that al- 
most amounted in its intensity to active dislike. 

He rose a little abruptly. 

“I suppose we ought to go, it’s getting late. Hope 
I haven’t bored you to death with my hagiograph- 
ical ambitions. Miss Finch I” 

“I am never bored,” said Ursula with truth. 

They descended the hill, and at the grocer’s shop 
he bade her a rather abrupt farewell. Why had he 
gone so suddenly? Had she bored him? For the 
last five minutes they had sat there in silence, but 
she had not found it tedious. She had had the feel- 
ing that her mind was in some subtle communion 
with his. 


CHAPTER VIII 


‘‘V7' ou are very late indeed, Ursula,” said Mrs. 

•I Finch. “I suppose you forgot that your 
father was going out to this meeting, and had to 
have his supper early. What on earth made you 
dawdle so long in St. Faith’s? And you started so 
early too, much earlier than usual.” 

Any slight deviation from her normal habits was 
always quickly perceived. She had started early, 
had returned late. And she had no explanation to 
give. Ursula flushed uncomfortably under her 
mother’s words and sharp glance of questioning 
scrutiny. 

“Oh, I am very sorry. I quite forgot about papa. 
I walked both ways to-day, and I did go to the top 
of the Island to look at the view. I thought I might 
not see it again.” 

‘‘You are really too foolishly sentimental,” said 
Mrs. Finch querulously, “as if the Island would run 
away! It will be there still, I suppose, when you 
return from Rome. And I had to get your father’s 
supper myself, just because you were mooning away 
your time on the Island!” 

“I am very sorry,” repeated Ursula. She spoke 
in a distressed tone. But she was willing to pay. 
Such happiness, coloring her drab life with rainbow 
radiance, was too great not to be paid for, perhaps 
heavily. 

“I do not know what Madame Garroni will think 
of you. I am afraid she will not keep anyone so for- 
getful and incompetent for a single week 1” 

“I know— it was very wrong of me to stay out 
so late,” said Ursula. She seemed to invite people 
8o 


URSULA FINCH 


8i 


to trample upon her. Mrs. Finch was somewhat 
appeased by this determined humility. Ursula al- 
ways seemed a little afraid of her, and this attitude 
flattered her. 

“You will have to work very hard, between now 
and the time you go, to get Daphne ready for Lon- 
don,” she observed; “so the less you gad about the 
better. She really has hardly a rag to her back, and 
naturally she wants to have everything as nice as 
possible when she goes to stay with such rich people 
as the Willmots.” 

“Yes, of course she does,” assented Ursula. It 
hardly occurred to her to ask herself why Daphne 
should be exempt from any kind of work, even from 
work of which the sole aim was the decoration of 
her own person. 

“And you must think of your own things too,” 
said Mrs. Finch. “Of course, you won’t want any- 
thing new. Nursery-governesses are not required 
to be smart, but you must be perfectly neat. I as- 
sure you, you have a very full fortnight before you, 
Ursula, and there must be really no more rushing 
off to the Island.” 

“Oh, of course, I shall not go there again,” said 
Ursula. 

“You can’t afford to be lazy or think of your own 
pleasure just now, when Daphne’s whole future de- 
pends upon her looking as nice as possible. These 
Willmots are very rich important people. Of 
course your father throws cold water upon the 
whole thing — he says Mr. Humphrey Willmot is 
never likely to look at Daphne because he can cer- 
tainly marry wherever he likes. But they will be in 
the same house — they will see each other day after 
day. It is a chance the darling has never had be- 
fore!” 

It was the first time she had spoken candidly to 


URSULA FINCH 


Ursula on the subject. Doubtless she had her own 
reasons for doing so now. 

Ursula’s heart sank a little as she listened. She 
thought of her long conversation with Humphrey 
that day. Her mother could have no suspicion as 
to the real causes that had detained her so long in 
St. F aith’s that a f ternoon. She felt guilty, for she had 
never before had the courage to conceal anything 
from her mother. Yet, what was there to tell ? Just 
that she had seen him — oh, so unexpectedly as he 
stood there, his back turned to her, gazing out of the 
little window of the chapel; that they had sat to- 
gether on the low wooden seat outside, their feet 
resting on the short turf that was starred with the 
pale, fragile pink of the little bindweed; that she 
had talked to him for a rapturous hour, with the 
brilliant blue of the Atlantic lying outspread before 
them like a magic sea? Why should she mention 
such trivial, tremendous, exquisite things ? Why not 
hide them in her own heart, where they most surely 
belonged? 

His voice was still in her ears. His gay, ironical, 
almost whimsical face seemed to be gazing down 
into hers with a kindly, tolerant interest, becoming 
at times even a little indignant. His eyes were grey- 
blue with a hint of green, just like the Atlantic on a 
stormy day. Not the bright blue of Cornish eyes 
that looked like patches of turquoise in the bronzed 
faces of the fisher-people, but eyes that changed 
quickly from dark to light, from grey to blue, from 
grave to gay. It gave her a little pang to remember 
how suddenly he had risen and said that it was time 
to go. Even his leave-taking this evening had been 
abrupt, almost unceremonious. For the first time 
they had made no plan for seeing each other again. 

“Day-dreaming, Ursula?” said Daphne’s light, 
disdainful voice. 


URSULA FINCH 


83 

Ursula had been too absorbed in her thoughts to 
observe her sister’s entrance. She started, blushing 
painfully. 

“You must be in love. Do tell me his name!” 
Daphne was slightly acid now beneath her very 
sweetness. Had she guessed anything? Did she 
know anything? Ursula both looked and felt 
guilty. 

“I am not in love,” she said in a constrained tone. 
“I have no time for that sort of thing.” 

“One can always make time for anything one 
wants to do,” said Daphne. “Besides you are get- 
ting sly. You never told us about your meetings 
with Mr. Willmot.” 

Ursula’s heart sank at the mention of his name. 
She felt a sudden sensation of cold, followed by one 
of burning heat. 

Mrs. Finch interposed. 

“Daphne is quite right. I won’t have you behav- 
ing deceitfully, Ursula! Do you understand me?” 

“You need not interfere, mamma,” said Daphne. 
“Ursula will very soon bore him to death. Just see- 
ing her will act as a kind of homeopathic remedy for 
that sort of foolishness. She has no idea how to be 
agreeable or amusing!” 

Yes, it was quite true. Hadn’t he gone off this 
evening with scant ceremony, putting an abrupt end 
to the interview he had himself sought, scarcely 
pausing to say good-by? 

“But, of course, you have been seeing him to-day. 
You must have had a perfectly heavenly time, judg- 
ing by your intense expression when I came in just 
now.” Daphne’s voice was coolly provoking. She 
liked to see her victim writhe, the contortions 
amused her. And she wanted very badly to punish 
Ursula. 

“We met by accident. He was on the Island. 


*4 


URSULA FINCH 


He wanted me to sit down and talk to him.” The 
words seemed dragged from her. She had a vague 
notion that it would be wicked to deceive them, al- 
though when they knew the truth they would be cer- 
tain to find some means of hurting her. She felt 
raw in Daphne’s hands, as if she were being ruth- 
lessly dissected by a practiced scalpel. Oh, she 
hoped that Hum^rey would never have the mis- 
fortune to marry Daphne I 

She looked at her sister, and for the first time in 
her life she found herself envying her beauty, that 
wonderful arresting fairness of hers, the thick wavy 
hair so blonde as to be almost lint-colored, the deli- 
cate bloom of her skin, the blue Cornish eyes, the 
black lashes that they had all inherited from their 
Cornish grandmother, and which contrasted so 
sharply with the rest of Daphne’s face. She envied 
her too her fearless assurance, the slim grace of her 
figure, her accurate incisive voice with its peculiarly 
charming intonation — perhaps a singer’s intonation. 
Physically and outwardly she was perfect. Ursula 
sincerely believed in her own ugliness. Few women, 
indeed, could have stood the strain of daily com- 
parison with Daphne. 

“Were you trying just for once to cut me out?” 
continued Daphne, who was determined now that 
Ursula should not be spared. “But I don’t think, 
whatever your intentions were, that we must let you 
go wandering off to the Island. Jenny can surely 
do the weekly shopping if it’s necessary, and the 
Island seems to be a very dangerous place. I 
shouldn’t really like you to burn your fingers, Ur- 
sula. You’ve always been such a steady-going old 
thing I” 

She gave a low rippling laugh. She had absolute 
confidence in her own powers to win Humphrey, to 
win him, too, coldly and deliberately. Not that she 


URSULA FINCH 


85 

loved him, or that she intended to allow herself to 
fall in love with him. In her heart she cared far 
more for the charming, impecunious artist, Aubrey 
Carter. There was something exciting in that ad- 
venture! He was so desperately, so grovelingly in 
love with her; more so than anyone had ever been. 
It was all nonsense, of course; he hadn’t a sou. 
Daphne liked to play a skillful, dangerous game. 
Still, it was annoying, when she came to think of it, 
that Humphrey had actually invited Ursula to stay 
and talk to him. But perhaps she had only imag- 
ined it; had taken some simple, conventional phrase 
of politeness for an invitation to remain. 

She went out of the room. Ursula sat there in 
speechless suppressed misery, not unmixed with feel- 
ings of anger and revolt. She had wanted, all the 
time that Daphne was speaking, to cry out, to stop 
her. She had felt the words falling upon her like 
little sharp whips. 

Mrs. Finch came across the room to where Ur- 
sula was sitting. 

“Daphne is quite right,” she said in a hard tone. 
“I won’t have you going to the Island. Do you hear 
me, Ursula?” 

“Yes, mamma,” said Ursula, wearily. 

She was conscious of an intense lassitude that at- 
tacked body and mind and spirit, sapping all her 
energies. The process of payment was a hard, fa- 
tiguing one, and this time it had had to be accom- 
plished without any delay. 

“To-morrow there will be no necessity for you to 
go beyond the garden. You have not forgotten 
that Madame Garroni is to come to tea? I have 
asked her to bring her children so that you may 
have the opportunity of making their acquaintance. 
I am sorry that you have made it necessary for me 
to keep an eye on your goings-out and comings-in, 


86 


URSULA FINCH 


Ursula. I must forbid you to go beyond the garden 
again without asking my leave. Do you under- 
stand? 

“Yes, mamma,” said Ursula. 

“Do you intend to obey me? If not I shall get 
your father to speak to you !” 

“Of course, I mean to obey you.” 

“It is disgraceful at your age that you should re- 
quire to be looked after in this way,” said Mrs. 
Finch. 

She went out of the room. What did young Mr. 
Willmot mean by showing Ursula so much foolish 
attention? Of course, it was turning her head. 
But a little strict discipline would soon bring her to 
her senses. Ursula had always required a firm 
hand. The curb and a reminder that the whip was 
there in readiness — that had been her constant 
method when Ursula was a child. The result was 
that she had never, until now, given them an in- 
stant’s real anxiety. But she must not be allowed to 
begin just now when Daphne’s whole future seemed 
to lie in the hands of young Mr. Willmot. 

Madame Garroni accepted the invitation to tea 
at Pentarn rectory with a feeling of profound relief. 
She had been bitterly disappointed when Mrs. Finch 
had, on that former occasion, so firmly refused her 
offer on behalf of Ursula, for she had made up her 
mind from Mrs. Burton’s description of her that the 
girl was the very person for whom she was so fruit- 
lessly searching. She had not in the meantime dis- 
covered anyone who was at all suitable. People 
refused to go so far from home for such a paltry 
salary. They asked tiresome questions, too, about 
hours and duties and holidays, as if suspecting that 
Madame Garroni’s situation was less desirable than 
she so enthusiastically described it. Most of the ap- 
plicants wished to devote themselves to an only 


URSULA FINCH 


87 

child, and to receive a far handsomer salary. But 
two little girls of eight and six — such difficult, tire- 
some ages. And only twenty-five pounds a year. 
Mrs. Finch had made no objection to anything of 
the kind; she had simply refused on the grounds that 
Ursula couldn’t be spared. What a mercy she had 
come to her senses, as her letter seemed to indicate. 
There was even evidence of fear lest she should have 
changed her mind too late to secure the post for her 
daughter I 

Madame Garroni was on this occasion not ac- 
companied by her sister, but she brought her two 
little girls with her. Alda, the elder, was a slim, 
dark-eyed creature, rather frail-looking. Rosina 
betrayed more evidence of her English blood, was 
sturdier, with golden hair and a bright, chubby little 
face. Ursula was attracted by the elder child, who 
sat on a chair near her mother, and behaved with all 
the dignity and composure of a grown-up person. 
Although she took no part in it, she listened atten- 
tively to the conversation, and seemed completely 
free from the restlessness, the perpetual question- 
ing, that characterize the normal English child. Ro- 
sina, on the contrary, was all over the room, touch- 
ing the photographs that stood on the tables, and 
paying no heed to her mother when she forbade her 
to do so. But they were both attractive, engaging 
little things, and Ursula began to feel more hopeful 
about the task that lay in front of her. 

Madame Garroni was all the time taking stock 
of Miss Finch. She was quick to recognize in her 
a quality that had lain outside her own conception 
of the person she intended to engage. It was that 
look o^ quiet and innate refinement which stamped 
her at once as a lady, even as a lady of birth and dis- 
tinction. She was as unlike the usual run of nursery- 
governesses who accept situations abroad as she 


88 


URSULA FINCH 


could well be. Her low, charming voice, her serious 
air, her graceful movements made an immediate im- 
pression upon Madame Garroni. She even had a 
moment’s fear that Ursula was altogether too “su- 
perior,” possessing qualities that she herself lacked 
— qualities that were born, not made. 

“Of course, I shall be charmed if you will come,” 
she said to Ursula. “If you have never been abroad 
you will find a great deal to interest you. I am not 
fond of sight-seeing myself, and I always catch cold 
in those great cold churches; but I know I am an 
exception. Many people like Rome immensely. I 
can’t say that I do, but when one is married one 
can not pick and choose. I infinitely prefer London, 
and the shops are better there. Still, there are cer- 
tain things we do get cheaper abroad. I think per- 
haps one always dislikes the place where one is 
obliged to live.” She rattled on in a good-natured, 
slightly inconsequent manner, but all the time Ur- 
sula felt that she was being sharply, attentively 
scrutinized. 

“Your mother tells me you have never been away 
from home in any capacity before. I am a little 
sorry that you have had no previous experience, but 
I am sure I shall easily be able to train you. You 
will find my children very sweet, but they are quite 
Italian, and you must never attempt to treat them 
as if they were English. I have tried sometimes 
with Alda, but it did not succeed, and then their 
father makes a fuss. He does not like them to be 
punished or to be forbidden to do things, unless, of 
course, it is something actually dangerous.” 

“They are not Roman Catholics, are they?” 
asked Ursula, suddenly. Afterward she did not 
quite know why she had yielded to the impulse that 
prompted her to ask this question. It is possible 
that she was influenced by what Humphrey had said 
yesterday. 


URSULA FINCH 


Mrs. Finch glanced sharply at her daughter. 
What an odd question for her to ask! What on 
earth made her think of it? She thought she had 
told her it was not the case. 

“Oh, dear no; they come to church with me. My 
mother-in-law made a fuss at first, because I had to 
promise before I married that they should be Ro- 
man Catholics. But I soon discovered that Guido — 
my husband — did not care in the least what they 
were, and I wished to show the bigoted old lady 
that she had no right to interfere. I believe though 
that she tries to teach them some prayers behind my 
back. It does not matter — they are too young to 
be influenced.” 

“After all, they are half English. I do not see 
why they should be brought up in all the Roman 
errors,” remarked Mrs. Finch, complacently. 

“You would have, of course, entire charge,” con- 
tinued Madame Garroni, turning again to Ursula. 
“You will sleep in their room — we are rather short 
of bedrooms owing to our having my husband’s 
nephew, Mario, living with us, as well as my old 
mother-in-law. I’m afraid there is no nursery, but 
you will be out of doors so much that you will not 
really feel the need of it! I live near the Borghese 
Gardens, and in summer you will spend nearly all 
day there. My one fear is that you may find the 
life with us too idle, after being busy with all kinds 
of work in your father’s parish 1” 

“Oh, Ursula has never had much time for the 
parish,” interposed Mrs. Finch; “just the Sunday- 
school and a little visiting when necessary. Hitherto 
she has had charge of Ruth, my youngest girl; 
she has had to teach her. And then there is always 
sewing to be done and other things around the 
house. We are unfortunately only able to afford 
one servant. I have trained Ursula to be useful.” 
Her lips closed in a thin, firm line. 


90 


URSULA FINCH 


“I am very glad of that, it is the most sensible 
training one can give one’s girls. I feel sure you 
will be an immense help to me, and I shall enjoy 
having someone English to talk to; you will be 
quite a companion. And, by the way, my plans are 
a little altered because Guido is getting impatient; 
he does not like me to be away so long, and he wants 
the children. That is the worst of having a hus- 
band — they are such impatient creatures I So I am 
afraid I shall have to start not later than to-day 
week. Can you be ready by then, do you think, 
Miss Finch?” 

Before Ursula could speak Mrs. Finch had 
hastily replied: 

“Of course, she will be ready. When there is a 
parting to be made I always think the sooner it is 
over the better!” 

Ursula looked at her mother. Ready? If left to 
herself she would never be ready to go and seek her 
fortune thus in the unknown. It was like offering 
her a bitter draught and asking her if she were ready 
to drink it. Her heart sank. She did not like Ma- 
dame Garroni, and she felt that she was not a lady; 
that there was more than a touch of vulgarity in her 
speech and language and appearance. She was even 
less attractive than Mrs. Burton, whose wealth had 
enabled her to acquire a certain surface veneer of 
good manners. It would be odious to be her paid 
dependent; to be patronized and ordered about by 
her. The conditions, too, would be worse than ^he 
had anticipated. Day and night she would never be 
alone. There was something appalling in the pros- 
pect. And once there she would be utterly forgot- 
ten at Pentarn, except by Ruth. She would be one 
burthen the less, and Daphne would go to London, 
would see Humphrey every day. Of course he 
would end like everyone else by falling in love with 


URSULA FINCH 


91 


her. Ursula had never yet seen the man who was 
ultimately proof against Daphne’s attractions. 

“I hope you are really strong?” continued Ma- 
dame Garroni, who felt that now she had secured 
her prize she must proceed, if not to find actual fault 
with it, at least to suggest certain shortcomings that 
she was graciously willing to overlook. “It would 
be really no use your coming if you are at all deli- 
cate. Just now it struck me that you were looking 
rather pale.” 

“Oh, Ursula is never ill,” said Mrs. Finch hastily. 
“I do not remember that she has ever had a 
real illness. Just measles and chicken-pox when she 
was a child — the things all healthy children have, 
and I always say the younger they are when they 
have them the better! We have brought up our 
children on simple, hardy, sensible lines. No cod- 
dling or fires in their bedrooms in winter. You 
need not be at all afraid of Ursula’s health. If she 
has plenty to do she will never have time to think 
about it, that’s the best remedy.” 

“I suppose you don’t know a word of Italian?” 
was the next question. 

“No, but I dare say I shall soon pick it up.” 

“It isn’t so easy. I have never mastered it per- 
fectly, although I have lived there nearly nine years. 
Of course, I know enough to speak to the servants. 
You will be required to speak English to the chil- 
dren of course. They are very lazy about it, and al- 
ways jabber Italian when they are together.” 

“Yes,” assented Ursula. 

“Do you know any French?” 

“A little. I can read it quite well.” 

“Dear me, I thought everyone knew French in 
these days. Music — drawing?” 

“I can give first lessons in both,” said Ursula 


92 URSULA FINCH 

simply. “I did not know you required anything 
more.” 

“No, I must not be too exigent. And while the 
children are so young they don’t require a really 
accomplished, highly-educated governess. Alda is 
very quick and clever — the Latin mentality, Miss 
Finch. Our slow-going British brains find it a little 
trying to cope with at first I Rosina is much more 
English, she is like me, we always think. She is my 
favorite for that reason. Then next Wednesday, 
Miss Finch. I think we may regard that as quite 
settled. I was already in correspondence with some 
really very talented girls who were most anxious to 
come, but, as my sister says, it is far better to take 
someone you know something about. I feel certain 
we shall get on admirably together.” She rose and 
looked down patronizingly upon Ursula Finch. “I 
am sure I need not ask you if you are fond of chil- 
dren?” 

“I am very fond of Ruth. She is almost the only 
child I have ever known,” answered Ursula. 

Later on Madame Garroni observed sapiently to 
her sister: 

“I can’t help thinking the girl is clever, although 
she is so quiet and seems to have no accomplish- 
ments, as we understood the term in Penzance. I 
hope she will not prove too much for me, but I think 
between us all we shall be able to keep her in her 
place I” 


CHAPTER IX 


W HEN Madame Garroni had gone with her two 
little girls, Mrs. Finch went quietly up to her 
daughter and gave her one of her rare embraces, as 
if she were a little sorry for what she had done. 

“Ursula, you do feel that it’s for your good? 
You don’t feel as if we were sending you away?” 

Whatever Mrs. Finch did she always required 
that people should think well of her, and believe 
that she had been actuated solely by high, altruistic 
motives. She was very anxious that Ursula should 
not connect her departure with the presence in Pen- 
tarn of Humphrey Willmot. She wished her to be- 
lieve that they were really making a sacrifice in thus 
permitting her to leave home, because it would be 
such an enormous advantage for her to go to Rome 
as Madame Garroni’s nursery-governess. 

“Oh, no, I am sure it will be good for me to see 
the world,” said Ursula. She returned the embrace, 
which had touched her the more because she was so 
utterly unused to any demonstration of affection 
from her mother. 

“Then you don’t dislike the idea?” 

“Perhaps I do rather. You see it’s all been so 
sudden. And I’m sure Madame Garroni won’t find 
me nearly so useful as she expects. I feel afraid.” 
“Afraid I What are you afraid of, Ursula?” 
“Of going so far — with these strange people. 
We may not suit each other.” 

“At your age I should have welcomed such an 
agreeable change,” said Mrs. Finch, in a manner 
that was intended to be bracing. “I wish you would 
train yourself to look at the bright side of things. 
You are so different from Daphne!” 

93 


94 


URSULA FINCH 


Ursula was silent. She was thinking to herself: 
“Next Wednesday. How shall I bear it? Oh, if 
I could only see him once more before I go — ^just 
once, without Daphne or any of them there I” 

She looked so pale and distressed that Mrs. Finch 
was moved to say kindly : 

“You’d better run down to the cliffs for half an 
hour. It’s a delicious evening. Don’t go far — not 
farther than the coast-guard station. And don’t stay 
out more than an half an hour. I shall let you off 
sewing for Daphne when you have finished her 
blouse; you will only have time now to attend to 
your own things.’’ 

“Thank you, mamma,” said Ursula. 

Daphne had gone to the Abbey this afternoon, 
so one could safely suppose that Humphrey was also 
there, Mrs. Finch reflected. It would be quite pru- 
dent to give Ursula this little run. It would cheer 
her. She was evidently distressed at the thought of 
leaving home so soon. But that would soon pass, 
and she would settle down quickly enough to her 
new life and duties. 

Ursula put on an ancient straw hat with a faded 
green ribbon tied round it, and went out of doors. 
She did not particularly wish to go, but the permis- 
sion had been in the nature of a little concession, 
and it would have been absurd not to avail herself 
of it. She passed through the garden, with its 
clumps of fuchsia and hydrangea, its sturdy thick- 
set hedges of veronica. She could hear the sea, the 
hiss of it, the thud of breaking waves. The soft air 
wp brackish to the taste, it went to her head like 
wine. She had spent all day indoors, and the fresh 
air excited her. She felt almost passionately alive. 
Just for this half hour she would forget Rome and 
the Garroni family, and enjoy the unexpected free- 
dom as a starving man enjoys food. It made her 


URSULA FINCH 


95 


long ardently for solitude and liberty, not in strictly 
homeopathic doses, which were all that were allot- 
ted to her now, but in large, generous draughts of 
satisfying sweetness. They were the two things 
that were necessary for development, both spiritual 
and physical, Ursula now assured herself. When 
she had left the garden behind her she hurried 
toward the cliffs. She wanted to spend as much time 
as possible within sight of the waves. 

It was nearing the hour of sunset. Already the 
blue of the sky was fading to green — that green 
that mingles with the blue in a turquoise. Across 
the flooding golden light there were dim purple 
streaks, painted horizontally with a curious pre- 
cision. The sea was very calm and of a wonderful 
color, neither blue nor green nor grey, but touched 
with silver in the fading light. She was watching it 
so intently that she never heard the sound of ap- 
proaching footsteps, moving softly on the short, 
springy turf, with its rosy patches of sea-pinks. 

“I am really in luck this evening, Miss Finch,” 
said Humphrey’s voice. 

Ursula felt now that she had always known she 
should meet him. His light, ironical voice made 
the words sound less significant than they were. 

She uttered the first thing that came into her 
head. 

“It is all settled, and I am to go on Wednesday,” 
she said, and her voice broke in an ill-suppressed 
sob. “I ought not to say anything when they all tell 
me it is for my good !” 

“Really? On Wednesday?” said Humphrey. 
He was a little astonished at her manifestation of 
emotion, for she had always seemed to him so pas- 
sive and acquiescent, and up till now he had observed 
no hint of mutiny in her quiet demeanor. Still the 
worm will always turn at last 


96 


URSULA FINCH 


In a moment she had recovered her equilibrium; 
he admired her rapid return to self-control. 

“Do tell me about it I You know Rome very 
well, of course. Tell me, please, that I arn sure to 
like it. It’s the thought of going so far with these 
people, who are almost strangers to me, that upsets 
me a little.” 

“Well, it’s very lovely,” he said. “I’ve spent 
several winters there and one whole summer, which 
I think I enjoyed most of all. The glorious radiant 
heat of it I But whether you’ll like it under these 
particular circumstances I can hardly venture to 
prophesy.” 

“That is what I’m so afraid of I I dread stran- 
gers, and I didn’t care for Madame Garroni. I 
felt that she would treat me almost as a servant.” 

It was delicious to have a sympathetic confidant 
to whom she could reveal these intimate reflections. 
At home they would have been regarded as “grum- 
bling,” and severely censured. 

“Then, dear Miss Finch, why do you go? If, as 
you say, they’re doing it for your good why don’t 
you tell them frankly that you’d rather not?” 

Ursula was silent. Long ago she had guessed 
the true reason for her hurried departure. But this 
was something which naturally could not be con- 
fided to Humphrey. 

“You see, I shall be earnii^, and I shan’t cost 
them anything. I shall be on their hands. And 
we’re awfully poor.” 

Humphrey was silent. They were sitting side by 
side on the dry, short grass of the cliff. A patch of 
early poppies glimmered redly in the falling dusk. 
An elder bush in full bloom made an almost ghostly 
effect with its broad white blossoms. Over the sea 
the twilight was drawing dim blue veils. Below 
them they could hear the beating of the waves on 


URSULA FINCH 


97 

Pentarn Rock, where the white lighthouse stood up 
like a slender pillar. 

At*.that moment he felt Ursula’s attraction very 
strongly. He knew that she was suffering, suffer- 
ing in the dumb way of inarticulate creatures, and 
he realized how great had been her need of sym- 
pathy when she had confided her fears to him. She 
was beautiful, too, in an unusual way; he had not 
thought her so at first, but now he wondered how he 
could ever have been blind to the fact. He had a 
moment’s wild impulse to tell her that he loved her, 
that he could not let her go. But his thirty years 
had taught him wisdom of a hard, practical kind. 
He had seen her perhaps less than half a dozen 
times; he didn’t really know her at all. He would 
have to know a woman a great deal better than 
that before he asked her to marry him. It would 
be ridiculous to yield to such a fantastic impulse as 
that. He liked her very much; he liked talking to 
her, looking at her, was even at times heartily sorry 
for her. He had sent her those books because he 
pitied her, and felt that she had a rather unpleasant 
time. But beyond that he had never intended to go. 
It had been a trifle unwise, seeing that she was so 
unlike other girls, to ask her to come and meet him 
more than once ; he saw now that because of this she 
was beginning to talk to him as an intimate friend, 
of whose sympathy she was assured. Already he 
counted for something — even if only for a very 
little — in that dull, starved life of hers. He was a 
little in love with her, but then he had often been a 
little in love with women ; it scarcely trespassed with 
him beyond the comparatively safe bounds of l^am- 
itie amoureuse. He believed in the transient nature 
ojf this emotion; it differed in no way from what he 
had felt several times before. But he was annoyed 
that just the one person he liked talking to in Pen- 


URSULA FINCH 


98 

tarn should be going away and leaving the place for 
an indefinite time. 

“I don’t believe you’ll like it a little bit,” he de- 
clared wrathfully. “Who are these Garronis? Ido 
not know anyone of that name. Are you sure they 
will treat you well? If your people are really de- 
termined you should go I feel that something much 
better might have been found for you I” 

“We do know them a little,” said Ursula, “and 
their being relations of the Burtons will perhaps 
make it impossible for them to be really unkind to 
me. I am only afraid of not being able to bear it, 
the being always with the children, day and night. 
I have to be with them all day, to sleep with them. 
She never said a word about my ever being free for 
an hour, or having a holiday.” 

“Then why did you not ask her?” 

“I was afraid; you see, mamma is so anxious I 
should go. I did not want to make difficulties, to 
run the risk of displeasing Madame Garroni.” 

So she had not lifted a finger to avert a fate she 
detested. 

“What is she like?” he asked. 

“She is — rather vulgar,” Ursula admitted. 

“If you go abroad in such a capacity you ought 
at least to try to get a post in some well-known 
Roman family where you would be treated with 
every consideration. Only I fancy they prefer to 
employ Catholics to look after their children. 
You’ll find the way of life so utterly different from 
anything you’ve ever known before.” He stopped. 
After all, wasn’t he judging by his own standards? 
What way of life was she accustomed to, in that 
small, shabby, out-at-elbows rectory? Wouldn’t 
almost anything be preferable? And yet, no. Here, 
at least, she was securely sheltered. There she 
would be eating the bread of dependence. She 


URSULA FINCH 


99 


couldn’t be happy. With her fine mind, her delicate 
perceptions, she might conceivably be very miserable 
indeed. 

“Must you really go?” he said. 

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly back out of it now.” 

“Not even if you told them what you’ve told 
me I 

She shook her head. “Papa and mamma both 
wish it, you see.” 

Humphrey frowned. 

“To me it seems so appalling that they should 
make you do it I” 

“They don’t really know — I’ve never told them 
— how I hate the idea. The strange thing is that 
I’m sure Daphne wants me to go. I never thought 
she would be in favor of it. I do so many little 
things for her.” 

So Miss Daphne’s thumbs had been turned down, 
too. Was there an intrigue at the back of it all? 
He put the thought quickly from him. There could 
be only one reason — that of poverty. But it was 
unfair to sacrifice one child upon the altar of an- 
other. The problem of Daphne was one that baf- 
fled him. She had gone up to the Abbey this after- 
noon, and from his window he had seen her arrive 
in the daintiest of grey muslin frocks. No stint 
there. 

“We must meet once more before you go,” he 
said. “Here, perhaps, who knows? Do you think 
you will be free one afternoon?” 

“I shall be very busy,” said Ursula. “I don’t 
think there is much chance. But perhaps on Sun- 
day.” She paused, looking at him with her grey, 
serious eyes. 

“Ah, yes, Sunday. I remember you are absolved 
from cooking on Sunday. Well, I shall be here 
waiting for you to come.” 


lOO 


URSULA FINCH 


Ursula rose. “I mustn’t stay. I’ve been out too 
long as it is. Mamma told me not to be more than 
half an hour.” 

Me opened his lips as if he were going to speak. 
But prudence prevailed. In repose his face was 
stern, and there were little lines under his eyes. 

“Good-by,” said Ursula, “you have been very 
kind. If I seem at all ungrateful or unthankful, 
please don’t think I am really so. It is because no 
one has ever been quite so kind to me before, and I 
don’t know quite what to say, except thank you for 
the books — for everything.” 

He was touched by the naive, simple, almost 
child-like confession. 

“I’m sure you’ll find plenty of people to be kind 
to you as you go through life. Miss Finch. I only 
wish it was in my power to do more. But in any 
case there is no need to thank me.” 

He wished he could save her from that unprom- 
ising fate. He knew enough of middle-class Anglo- 
Italian households to feel certain that she would not 
be happy in such a milieu. He had never seen Ma- 
dame Garroni, but he had had sufficient glimpses of 
the Burton family to enable him to form a pretty 
good estimate of her and of her probable position in 
Rome. He had the feeling now^ — more deeply than 
he cared to confess even to himself — that he was 
wronging both Ursula and himself by his silence. 
Every moment she seemed in a sense dearer to him. 
That last speech of hers, in which she had tried to 
put into words something of the gratitude she felt, 
had pierced him sharply. He tried to shake him- 
self free from all scruples concerning her, but it was 
not easy to do so. He had been to blame, of course. 
He had made her come, not once but many times; 
he had dared to evoke that gratitude when all the 
time it was he who should have been grateful. He 


URSULA FINCH 


lOI 


had given nothing; he had satisfied only his humor 
of the hour. He turned away so as not to meet her 
grave, dark eyes that were looking up into his. 

What beautiful eyes they were — the most beau- 
tiful surely in all the world! And he was letting 
her go deliberately. 

He took the hand that she held out to him. 

“Good-by,” he said, “until Sunday.” 

He stood and watched her as she walked quickly 
across the grass toward the group of storm-bent 
trees that sheltered Pentarn rectory. She did not 
once turn her head, but he never guessed that it 
was because her eyes were swimming with tears. 

She met no one, fortunately, and she went quickly 
up to the little airless attic that constituted her work 
room. On the table near the window stood the sew- 
ing-machine. She took Daphne’s blouse, all 
wrapped in silver paper, from a drawer, and began 
at once to work. Yes, she ought not to have stayed 
out so long. She had been sitting on the cliff for 
more than an hour. And there was more to be done 
to the blouse than she had imagined. It would take 
a long time to finish it. The night hours seemed to 
stretch out endlessly in front of her. In anticipation 
she could already feel that dreadful but familiar 
sensation of hot and heavy weariness that only the 
night-watcher or the night-worker can know. The 
dull hot pain behind the eyes; the nervous, trem- 
bling hands. The aching longing just to lie down 
and sleep — and then hard on the top of that first 
slumber — morning. Time to get up, to creep down- 
stairs, for fear of awakening anyone. And then a 
new day filled to the brim. Never again perhaps 
such strange, almost delirious happiness as she had 
known to-day. 

Daphne opened the door and looked in. 


102 


URSULA FINCH 


“Oh, you’re there, Ursula. Have you nearly 
done?” 

“Not quite.” 

“Well, I absolutely must wear it to-morrow. Fm 
asked to lunch at the Abbey. And Humphrey is al- 
ways in to lunch though never to tea, it seems. Fm 
to sing to him.” 

“You shall really have it to-morrow, Daphne. 
Fm sorry to have been so slow.” 

“Well, don’t sit up all night!” said Daphne, good- 
naturedly. 


CHAPTER X 


URING the few days that followed, Ursula was 
busy preparing her own things for the journey, 
and her household tasks were somewhat diminished. 
Her mother undertook them with the help of Jenny 
and Ruth. While she was sewing Ursula often 
propped the little volume of Crashaw up in front of 
her and read a few verses. There was a poem 
about St. Theresa that she found very thrilling, in- 
deed; it did not take her long to learn a good deal 
of it by heart. And there were other poems of quite 
singular beauty. Words such as these seemed to 
possess her mind, wonderful, beautiful, awe-inspir- 
mg words : 

Lord, when the sense of Thy sweet grace 
Sends up my soul to seek Thy Face, 

Thy blessed Eyes breed such desire, 

I die in Love's delicious fire. 

O Love, I am Thy sacrifice ! 

Be still triumphant, blessed Eyesl 
Still shine on me, fair suns I that I 
Still may behold, though still I die. 

For while Thou sweetly slayest me 
Dead to myself I live in Thee. . . . 

It made of religion quite a different thing from 
that which was offered to her at Pentarn. It wasn’t 
only long hymns, interminable hymns, shrieked out 
by small boys out of tune. It wasn’t only sermons. 
There was something else, something that uplifted 
and almost opened the doors of heaven to you. She 
wanted to find out what it was. Perhaps Hum- 
phrey, who knew so much, could tell her. 

She didn’t feel quite like herself during those last 
days at Pentarn. The weather was exquisite — so 
calm and still; and day after day the sea lay like a 
beautiful lake under a cloudless sky. She did not 
103 


104 


URSULA FINCH 


go out much — there was really no time — and what- 
ever happened she must be quite ready by Wednes- 
day. She had received a letter from Madame Gar- 
roni, formally engaging her, and she felt that noth- 
ing but death could now avert her fate. But she 
was not wholly unhappy. There were hours indeed 
when she felt immensely happy, almost reasonlessly 
so. She did not associate this emotion with Hum- 
phrey; she only knew that her thoughts were all 
colored with a wonderful rainbow light. And on 
Sunday she would see him again, no matter what 
the cost. They would have one more last talk on 
the cliffs. Surely, he would say something to give 
her courage. The thought of Sunday upheld her 
through all the days that followed. 

At tea-time on Sunday she said to her mother: 

“May I go out for half an hour, please, mamma? 
I have not been beyond the garden since last 
Wednesday.” 

“Yes, you may go. But you must not be late for 
the evening service.” Mrs. Finch eyed her daugh- 
ter sharply. “Do not go far, Ursula; and remem- 
ber to come back in good time.” 

Ursula was in a state of suppressed excitement. 
The thought of the long journey, now so imminent, 
the prospect of this final interview with Humphrey 
Willmot, were the two principal causes of her ex- 
citement. She felt as if she were on the brink of 
some perilous adventure which she was facing with 
a mixture of boldness and timidity. She was a new 
person even to herself, terribly alive and sentient. 
Yet, when she saw Humphrey standing there on the 
cliff all her boldness vanished, and left her suddenly 
tongue-tied. 

‘^e’ll go down to the sands to-day,” he said; 
“the tide’s out. We are never sure of being free 
from interruption here.” 


URSULA FINCH 


105 

He led the way down the steep, rocky, winding 
path that dipped precipitously to the beach. It is 
possible that if he had said, “We’ll go to the end of 
the world,” she would have acquiesced with just that 
simple readiness she displayed now. The coming 
separation, now so near, so inevitable, had taught 
her one thing, and she could no longer disguise it 
from her own heart. She loved him. There was 
something of passionate devotion in her love. She 
would have died for him so gladly. That was where 
she was different from Daphne. Daphne would 
never die for anyone; she would, on the contrary, 
expect people to be quite ready to die for her. 

Now they were on the hard, pale sands, ribbed 
with a delicate regular pattern that looked almost 
like a mosaic. They were shadowed by the over- 
hanging cliff. From above no one could see them. 
They faced the Atlantic in all its splendor, and near 
by stood the black Island rock, upon which stood 
Pentarn lighthouse. It was a divine evening in 
May. The soft, warm air touched their faces like a 
caress. The sea was very calm, with tiny waves 
tumbling over each other in Liliputian frolic. A 
blue and silver sea, under a blue and silver sky. 

“I wanted to tell you how much I like Crashaw,” 
she said, breaking the silence. “He’s so different 
from other poets. He makes religion seem so dif- 
ferent.” 

Religion at Pentarn was rather a joyless thing 
relegated to Sundays. Ursula had often wondered 
if there were something lacking in herself that made 
it seem joyless and unattractive. It was an effort 
to sit very still through the long services, the equally 
long sermons. Mr. Finch had not the gift of 
preaching, and was hampered by a slight hesitation 
in his speech which gave him an imperfect utterance. 
As a child Ursula had dreaded Sunday unspeakably. 


io6 


URSULA FINCH 


She had so often been punished on that day for not 
knowing her collect. 

But Crashaw gave her a glimpse of something 
else, something wonderful, that made religion seem 
a sublime and beautiful thing. Something you would 
be willing to die for, as the early Christians had 
died. 

“I dare say he makes it seem different to you,” 
said Humphrey. “He was a Roman Catholic, you 
know — a convert to the Faith.” 

“Oh, was he?” said Ursula. 

She knew so little about it that she had not de- 
tected the fact. Humphrey was indeed the first per- 
son who had ever spoken of the Catholic Church 
with warm admiration in her hearing. Mr. Finch’s 
views were decidedly “low.” He believed that re- 
ligious truth had been summed up once and forever 
in the Thirty-nine Articles. All his children had 
been made to learn them by heart. 

“Didn’t you find that he made religion very at- 
tractive?” said Humphrey. He paused a moment, 
and then added, “dangerously attractive.” 

“Yes, but I didn’t quite know why.” 

“Francis Thompson follows him very closely at 
times. Some people think him the greater artist of 
the two. At any rate he has written what many 
hold to be the finest English poem since Shakespeare 
— the Hound of Heaven.** 

“Yes, I have read that; we have it at the rectory,” 
said Ursula. 

“Both men were Catholics,” said Humphrey. 

Ursula felt at once attracted and repelled. She 
had an uncomfortable remembrance of the word 
error as used by her father. It was always visual- 
ized in her mind as large and black, each letter sur- 
mounted by a little tip of flame. 

“You’ll see a good deal of the Catholic religion in 
Rome,” said Humphrey. “I wonder what you’ll 


URSULA FINCH 


107 


think of it, what sort of impression it will make upon 
you.” 

“Madame Garroni is a Protestant, so perhaps I 
shall not come in contact with it very much,” said 
Ursula. 

Again he had that old scruple about letting her 
go. He had been thinking of it a great deal, and 
he had made up his mind that she would not be 
happy. She wasn^t one to settle down just any- 
where. And the worst of it was that however in- 
supportable she found it she would never give in or 
cry out, or tell anyone that she was suffering. She 
would just endure. And to-day as she sat near him, 
looking quite beautiful, he wasn’t sure that he didn’t 
want her to stay in Pentarn for his own sake. 

“We shall hear news of you I hope through Miss 
Daphne,” he said. 

“Yes, I shall write to her.” 

“My mother has taken an enormous fancy to her. 
She does to people, you know, especially to girls. 
But this is the most violent I can remember. De- 
pend upon it she’ll arrange a marriage for her.” 
He chuckled. “She likes doing that, and it’s a 
harmless pastime enough. But I won’t let her use 
her gifts on my behalf.” 

“Daphne is very beautiful. Lots of people have 
been in love with her,” said Ursula, simply. 

“I can well believe it,” he answered; “but if I 
had the shaping of her destiny I should have her 
voice trained. It’s wonderful that she hasn’t spent 
everything she spends on her frocks and hats upon 
getting her voice properly trained. She has a real 
gift, and I should like to make her do three years 
of hard, strenuous work and teach her what it 
means. As it is I can hardly listen to her singing, 
because I’m thinking all the time of what she might 
have done I” 

It was the first time that Ursula had ever heard 


io8 


URSULA FINCH 


Daphne’s voice criticized, and it gave her a faint 
sense of disloyalty, because she felt actual pleasure 
in hearing Humphrey say those severe words. He 
was a little inclined to be hard on Daphne. Ursula 
believed that any kind of hard work would kill 
Daphne, because she hated it so. 

They were sitting on some low rocks right under 
the cliff that formed a kind of solid roof above them. 
The sea receded rapidly, leaving little shining pools 
that caught a wonderful colorless brightness from 
the sky. 

“You must give me Madame Garroni’s address 
in Rome,’’ he said suddenly, “and then if I come 
across any books that I think you would like I’ll 
send them along. Sometimes when one is abroad 
for any length of time one wants desperately some- 
thing English — something from England — to cheer 
one up.’’ 

“It would be very kind of you, but you mustn’t 
really trouble,” said Ursula. 

“It would be a pleasure, if you’ll let me,” he said. 

He did permit himself to gaze squarely into her 
grey eyes as he said the words. Yes, they were 
beautiful eyes, dark, tender and frank. She was 
delicious in her prettiness, her shabbiness. Accus- 
tomed to women who were soignee and dainty be- 
neath the ceaseless and complicated ministrations of 
experienced French maids, he realized the precise 
measure of failure to which Ursula attained in these 
respects. It was all the more wonderful that despite 
these disadvantages she could remain so beautiful, 
so attractive. One did not realize it perhaps until 
one was talking to her. 

He felt almost dangerously sorry for her to-day. 
It was pity, he assured himself, that made him want 
to take her little roughened hand in his and tell her 
that he was sorry. But there were several excellent 


URSULA FINCH 


log 


and prudent reasons for keeping silence. He was an 
ambitious man and he enjoyed his freedom, his abil- 
ity to go where and when the fancy took him. He 
had already a comfortable home — or rather a se- 
lection of comfortable homes — to which he could 
return. He was an adored only son; his homes 
were happy ones. Pentarn had proved a singularly 
happy one. It had brought him Ursula. He was 
nearly sure now that he loved her, but it would be 
necessary for him to put his love to the severe test 
of a prolonged parting in order to ascertain that it 
wasn’t only that transient agreeable emotion he had 
so often experienced before, and from which he had 
always so quickly recovered! He told himself that 
when he married he must choose a woman of his 
own world, not a young girl from a tiny forgotten 
’ Duld have to learn, so to speak, her 



She was a lady and all that, but 


she was unworldly and utterly unaccustomed to life 
in its more brilliant urban or cosmopolitan phases. 
And it was inherently unlikely that, say, in six weeks’ 
time he would still be in love with her. His pity, 
his weak liking, were merely ephemeral emotions. 
It certainly never occurred to him that Ursula could 
have anything but a friendly liking for himself. He 
could interest her, feed her hunger for books, and 
talk to her about them as he did to all his women- 
friends, of whom he had always had a great many. 
He had never imagined that any danger could ac- 
crue to Ursula from these meetings. 

“I hope, you know, that it’ll all be a tremendous 
success,” was what he did at last manage to say; “at 
any rate you’ll see Rome, and that alone is worth a 
certain sacrifice. I can remember the first time I 
ever saw it, as a boy with my people. It’s rather 
overwhelming at first, in spite of its ugly modern 
quarter. Someone — I think it was Ampere — said 


I lO 


URSULA FINCH 


that the dome is la seule des oeuvres d*homme qui 
ait quelque chose de la grandeur des oeuvres de Dieu» 
Try to remember those words, Miss Finch. Don’t 
let people prejudice you against Bernini, to whom so 
much of the interior decoration of St. Peter’s is due. 
I want you to think of it as splendid beyond words. 
I am told one has to be a Catholic to appreciate the 
Baroque as it deserves. It’s bound up, you know, 
with a particular period of church history — the coun- 
ter-reformation. For the Church it was a period of 
life, of fresh impulse, of real and passionate spir- 
itual energy.” 

Something in his ardor thrilled Ursula. He 
really cared — cared for that very kind of religion 
of which Crashaw and Francis Thompson had given 
her such divine glimpses. He made her want to 
know more — much more. She breathed a freer, 
larger air when she was with him than anything 
that the stifling, narrowing atmosphere of Pentarn 
rectory could offer. Was it true that the Reforma- 
tion had swept all this incredible beauty out of Eng- 
land? 

She quoted, almost under her breath : 

But reverent discipline, and religious fear, 

And soft obedience, find sweet biding here; 

Silence and sacred rest; peace and pure joys. 

The self-rememb’ring soul sweetly recovers 

Her kindred with the stars; not basely hovers 

Below; but meditates her immortal way 

Home to the original source of Light and intellectual day. 

“Ah, you like that, too?” he said, looking de- 
lighted. “It’s a very favorite poem of mine.” 

“Yes, I liked it. It made work seem such a beau- 
tiful, dignified thing, when it was done like that,” 
she said. 

She glanced at her watch. She knew by expc- 


URSULA FINCH m 

rience how quickly time flew when she was talking 
to Humphrey. 

“No, don’t look at the time; it’s quite early,” he 
said. 

Now the wind had risen a little, ruffling the 
waves. They were small still, but not so small. They 
came tumbling in shoreward with greater energy. 
The tide was on the turn. 

“If you had stayed here I feel we might have l^e- 
come great friends,” said Humphrey. He knew it 
was unwise, unfair, but he wanted her to know that 
he had liked those hours they had spent together. 

“Might we?” she said. 

“Don’t you feel it, too?” 

“No, I’m so ignorant. And you know so much.” 

“I’ve knocked about the world for a good many 
years. One picks up a little surface knowledge,” 
he conceded. “You’ll do the same away from Pen- 
tarn.” 

“With two children to look after day and night?” 

“I hope you’ll find a better post soon, with more 
leisure. Italians are keen on letting their children 
learn English now. I should keep my eyes open if I 
were you.” 

“I would far, far rather stay here I” she said, with 
sudden passion. It seemed that in leaving Pentarn, 
in going away from Humphrey Willmot, she was 
deliberately closing the door upon all that life held 
of worth and loveliness. 

“And I would rather, too, that you had stayed,” 
said Humphrey; and this time he did not try to re- 
strain the tenderness in his voice. 

They were meagre crumbs of comfort — these 
tender, unsatisfactory scraps of sentiment he offered 
her now — but Ursula, asking nothing, found them 
strangely satisfying. 

It was her very first experience of arousing inter- 


I 12 


URSULA FINCH 


est and attention in any man, and perhaps for this 
reason alone Humphrey would have attracted her. 
His personality, his ardent intelligence, something, 
too, that was extraordinarily winning in his man- 
ner, had completed the conquest of her. No one 
that resembled him in the least degree had hitherto 
crossed her path. And now that he had come, 
changing so wonderfully the color of her whole life, 
she was to go away from Pentarn. She never saw 
in these two practically simultaneous events any ul- 
terior connection, never perceived therein the care- 
ful and deliberate scheming of her mother and sis- 
ter. She saw it merely as a melancholy coincidence. 
They might have been friends, even great friends, 
as he had just now said, if she had only been able to 
remain in Pentarn. She might have contrived, per- 
haps, a little more leisure in which to meet him. She 
had often been reproved for her slowness and daw- 
dling, but with such an incentive she could surely 
have accomplished her work with a greater celerity. 
Pentarn was so different now that Humphrey was 
there. It had become to her the home of living ro- 
mance. He took her out of her little world of sor- 
did cares, made her think, quickened her mind by 
sheer contact with his own. The foundations of Ur- 
sula’s romance were miserably small, but the very 
narrow conditions of her life inevitably made her 
exaggerate them. 

“Perhaps I may even come to Italy next winter,” 
he said. “I do sometimes spend a few weeks in 
Rome on my way home. And then I shall look 
you up, Miss Finch.” 

“Oh, will you really? It would be very kind. 1 
am sure that I shall be longing to see an English 
face I” 

He laughed. 

“And if you’re not happy I shan’t let you stop, 


URSULA FINCH 


113 

you know,” he told her now, half in jest and half in 
earnest. 

“I know I shan’t be happy, but I shall pretend 
to be. You see, I’m expected to be a nice bright 
girl — that’s what Madame Garroni wants, to look 
after her children.” 

He made a little grimace. 

“And are you not a nice bright girl?” he inquired. 

“I don’t think I am,” she said very seriously. 
“I wish I were.” 

“It is a type I detest, if that is any comfort to 
you. But for companions and governesses, I sup- 
pose it is a necessity.” 

“She must have hoped I was fairly bright — she 
saw me,” said Ursula, who could never quite under- 
stand why Madame Garroni had so quickly en- 
gaged her. 

“No, she took you because she saw that you were 
young and beautiful and charming,” he said. 

Prudence deserted him a little as he made this 
rash speech. But he longed to put a little whole- 
some conceit into her. She had suffered all her life 
from that close, daily comparison to Daphne. 

Ursula rose to her feet. She was a little stiff 
from sitting there so long. The church bell struck 
suddenly upon her dismayed ears. 

“Oh, I shall be late !” she cried, in distress. 

“Late! What for?” he inquired. 

“For the evening service; they are always angry 
with me if I am late. There is no excuse for me 
on Sundays, as I have nothing to do.” 

She began to climb the steep path that led up the 
cliff. The short grass was tangled with rosy patches 
of sea-pinks. Humphrey followed, a little irritated 
by her passion for duty. He had not said all that 
he had meant to say to her at this, their last inter- 
view. 


CHAPTER XI 


D aphne was on her way home from the Abbey, 
and because the evening was so fine she made 
a little detour before going in, and took the path 
that led across the cliffs to the rectory. She was 
nearing home, when she suddenly perceived two 
figures standing motionless near the edge of the 
cliff, overlooking the sea. Surely, that was Ursula I 
That slim, rather small silhouette of hers was un- 
mistakable. But who could that be standing near 
her? Daphne walked forward quickly and very 
softly. The thought of coming upon her sister un- 
awares amused her. She could picture Ursula’s 
flushed, embarrassed guilty look at being “caught” 
talking to a man I Daphne was quite close to them 
before she became aware that the man was Hum- 
phrey Willmot. 

What were they doing there together? Why was 
not Ursula in church? The bell had ceased to ring 
some minutes ago. Daphne thought, with a touch 
of jealousy, that they looked as if they had been 
standing there for a long time. They seemed im- 
mensely unconscious of everything around them. 
Ursula’s back was turned to her, and of Humphrey 
she could only catch the merest glimpse of his pro- 
file. What were they talking about? What could 
Ursula find to say that could possibly detain any 
man more than five minutes? Daphne had small 
opinion of her sister’s power of entertaining any- 
one. Was it possible that Humphrey really had a 
curious and inexplicable preference for Ursula’s 
society? 

Daphne approached slowly, and as she came up 
close to them she caught sight of Ursula’s face, up- 


URSULA FINCH 


IIS 

turned to Humphrey’s. It was fresh and glowing. 
The tired, strained, harassed look had gone out of 
it. She was a young girl again, and her grey eyes 
were shining with a soft, happy, and almost tender 
light. The slight sea-wind had disarranged her 
hair, which was always rather too primly and neatly 
dressed. She was smiling up at Humphrey with an 
eager, charming look. Nor could Daphne console 
fcerself with the thought that Humphrey appeared 
in the least degree bored. He was talking and 
Smiling as if for him Ursula were the one person 
of importance in the whole world. Daphne knew 
what that look meant on the face of a man. It was 
the prelude to love, perhaps even to a declaration of 
love. 

It was possible that but for Mrs. Willmot’s warm 
interest in herself Daphne would have shrugged her 
shoulders at her sister’s conquest and let things be. 
But she had resolved as soon as Mrs. Willmot’s 
invitation had been given (and so fervently ac- 
cepted) that she would win Humphrey’s love. She 
would marry him, and be freed forever from all 
sordid financial cares. They would travel all over 
the world together, and Daphne would be the ad- 
mired of everyone wherever she went. She had 
already pictured the frocks she would have — slen- 
der, fragile things, that would enhance the perfect 
symmetry of her figure ; the jewels, the motors. She 
knew that Humphrey could give her all that she 
wanted. And he would take her away from Pen- 
tam, from the small, shabby, unlovely rectory, the 
prevailing fretfulness and ill-temper, the perpetual 
worry about money. These thoughts had been in 
her mind at the precise moment when she had first 
discerned those two figures standing side by side 
upon the cliff, outlined against the sky. It was prob- 
ably for this reason that she felt a dull, insensate 


URSULA FINCH 


1 16 

rage against her sister. What was she doing here 
upon the cliff on this heavenly spring evening with 
Humphrey Willmot? It was so unlike her to idle 
out of doors, to miss a service in the church. 

“Good evening, Mr. Willmot. Why — Ursula I*’ 
Daphne’s surprise was very prettily simulated, al- 
though it did not deceive Ursula in the least. She 
started and looked just as guilty and embarrassed 
as Daphne had hoped. 

Daphne stood there, looking charming, with her 
fair hair, her dark blue eyes, her wild-rose color- 
ing. Slight and straight as a wand she stood three 
or four inches taller than her sister. 

“I’ve been having tea with your mother,” she said 
to Humphrey. “I can’t tell you what delightful 
plans she has been making. I’m to go with her 
when she leaves for London instead of joining her 
later. I am looking forward to it more than I can 
say. You can hardly realize what it means to a 
miserable country-mouse like myself!” 

“I’m very glad if it gives you so much pleasure,” 
said Humphrey, good-naturedly. “To a cockney 
like myself anything almost is preferable to spend- 
ing June in London.” He smiled at her indul- 
gently. She was certainly very lovely. That skin 
of hers was so dazzlingly fair. “But I mustn’t 
throw cold water, and I can promise you that you 
will enjoy it enormously. My mother nearly always 
has someone to stay with her for the season, to com- 
pensate her for her own lack of daughters. And if 
I’m to believe what her guests tell me, they have a 
simply ripping time.” 

“I never dreamed of such luck,” said Daphne. 
“It’s what I’ve wanted for years. I’m to sing, too; 
she said she could perhaps arrange that for a char- 
ity.” 

“You’ll make a tremendous sensation,” smiled 


URSULA FINCH 


1 17 

Humphrey. He could always say, quite sincerely, 
exactly what was expected of him, and he could not 
help being attracted by her gaiety, her youth, her 
eagerness. 

“Oh, do you really think I shall? Do you think 
my voice will be worth listening to in London?” 

Humphrey reflected. “I’m positive you’ll find 
people only too ready to listen to you. Don’t' let 
them overwork you — that’s all!” 

She made a little pas-seul on the close cropped 
turf. Her movements were delicious. 

“How awfully nice of you I Ursula, do you hear 
that?” She spoke to her sister for the first time. 

Ursula smiled. She was so happy to-day that she 
wished every one else to be happy, too. Yet, it 
never occurred to her to envy her sister’s good for- 
tune. She herself would have been sick with nervous- 
ness at the thought of visiting the Willmots in Lon- 
don. But, of course, it was exactly what Daphne 
would like. She would have room to expand, to 
open and disclose to an admiring world those but- 
terfly wings of hers. Ursula knew that she was dis- 
satisfied and discontented at Pentarn. She derived 
little real happiness from those perpetual desultory 
flirtations that caused so much bitterness between 
herself and her father. 

“Come along, Ursula, we ought to be going 
home. As we have missed church we shall imperil 
our lives if we are late for supper, too.” 

“I’ll come part of the way with you if you’ll let 
me,” said Humphrey. 

He walked beside the two girls. Daphne separat- 
ing him from Ursula who had now relapsed into her 
usual silence, astonished at the quick way in which 
Humphrey had adapted himself to Daphne’s very 
different conversation and point of view. She would 
not admit that it had hurt her a little. For, of course, 


ii8 


URSULA FINCH 


he must be accustomed to talking to many different 
types of women — the grave, the gay, the smart, the 
shabby, the pretty, the plain, the clever, and stupid! 
He would be certain to find something kindly and 
sympathetic to say to each one. The thought came 
suddenly to her mind : If Daphne goes to London 
she will see him every day. Yes, she would be under 
the same roof, would be admitted as far as a guest 
ever can be to the intimate family life, to a knowl- 
edge of those petty daily happenings, those little 
interests that all families possess. She would see 
Humphrey constantly, with his parents, with his 
friends. She would see the side of him that was 
familiar to his mother, surely a very lovable, charm- 
ing side 1 And perhaps they would become great 
friends. He would forget those things he had 
heard of her in Pentarn, her selfishness, her extrav- 
agance, her foolish flirtations. Perhaps, he too, 
would end by falling in love with her. Ursula 
sighed. People nearly always did end by falling in 
love with Daphne, though hitherto no man who 
could afford to marry her had done so. She had 
seen it happen over and over again, had been quick 
to recognize the first symptoms. Only she didn’t 
want it to happen now with Humphrey Willmot. 

Humphrey parted from them at the gate. He 
wondered why Ursula had become so pale and si- 
lent. Only, perhaps, her pallor was the more no- 
ticeable against the brilliant dazzling fairness of 
Daphne. 

“I am afraid this is really good-by,” he said, 
taking Ursula’s hand in his. “So I will say bon voy- 
age, and I hope you will like Rome. I am sure we 
shall hear news of you sometimes through your sis- 
ter.” He looked at Daphne as he spoke. 

“You shall hear when we do,” said Daphne, smil- 
ing graciously. His interest would soon cool when 


URSULA FINCH 


119 

Ursula was safely across the seas. Separation was 
an excellent remedy, if a trifle drastic. Still Ur- 
sula’s departure was a simply providential arrange- 
ment. She was glad they had been so quick to per- 
ceive the danger of keeping her at home. Hum- 
phrey would have found innumerable excuses for 
deserting London and running down to the Abbey 
had Ursula remained in Pentarn. 

“Good-by,” said Ursula. 

She spoke timidly, aware of Daphne’s sharp and 
critical scrutiny. She was almost afraid to look up 
into Humphrey’s face. 

“And if it’s unbearable, remember what I told 
you I” said Humphrey gaily. 

“Yes, I won’t forget,” answered Ursula. She 
turned away hastily, pushing open the wooden gate 
that led into the rectory garden. It was dreadful 
to have to say good-by like that, with Daphne watch- 
ing. She felt a lump rising in her throat, and her 
eyes were burning with repressed tears. But Daphne 
was following her closely; it would be fatal to dis- 
play any emotion. 

“Mr. Willmot must have a singular attraction for 
you, my dear Ursula,” said Daphne, as they passed 
into the hall. “I can not remember that you have 
ever ventured to stay away from church on Sunday 
evening before. However, I know I need not say 
anything, papa will know how to deal with it quite 
adequately. You are a sly little thing, though, 
stealing off to the cliffs like that. How long had 
you been there, I wonder, before I came upon you?” 

“I don’t know. Daphne,” said Ursula. “Not 
very long — on the cliffs I mean.” She looked up 
imploringly at her sister. 

“Well, he did not seem to expect to see you 
again,” resumed Daphne, “and, under the circum- 
stances, I think that is quite as well. He might eas- 
ily turn your silly little head.” 


120 


URSULA FINCH 


“Oh, Daphne,” said Ursula with sudden entreaty, 
“don’t please tell them — papa and mamma, I mean. 
I’m going away so soon that it can’t possibly mat- 
ter.” 

Daphne’s fair face hardened. 

“Of course, I shall tell mamma. I never hide any- 
thing from her, as you know. I am not going to 
keep your silly secrets, Ursula. She had better 
warn Madame Garroni to keep a sharp eye upon 
you in Rome. I am sure it will be necessary. You 
must have bored that poor young man to extinction.” 

“He didn’t seem bored,” said Ursula. 

“In any case he would be far too well-bred to 
show it. He has not been making love to you, has 
he?” 

“Of course not!” said Ursula, indignantly. 

Daphne smiled. “I am glad to hear that,” she 
said coolly. “You see, I have a very special reason 
for asking. I mean to marry him myself. I am 
sure that his mother wishes it, too, for she gave 
me a pretty broad hint on the subject. You will have 
to learn to look upon him as a very kind brother- 
in-law; not that you will see very much of either 
of us when we are married.” 

She went lightly upstairs to her room. 


CHAPTER XII 


^T^HE long hot and dusty journey was coming to 
an end. It seemed an eternity to Ursula since 
she had quitted Pentarn, very early on a cool May 
morning, with the wind blowing in lightly from the 
Atlantic. The green dusk of the Cornish woods 
had been lit here and there with the crimson flame 
of rhododendrons just beginning to blossom, and by 
the tall spires of fox-gloves that matched them so 
closely in color. Most of the interim had been 
spent in a black and suffocating inferno, except for 
the brief respite from whirling trains they had en- 
joyed while crossing the Channel. Madame Gar- 
roni traveled, for the sake of economy, by second 
class, and the trains as usual were crowded to over- 
flowing. She had not stopped anywhere on the way 
except for an hour or two in Paris, where they had 
snatched a hasty meal before taking their seats in 
the Rome express. Sometimes she would buy food 
at the stations at which they stopped to appease the 
hunger of the little party. Ursula was not hungry, 
but she suffered cruelly from the thirst produced by 
swallowing so much coal-dust. They had spent two 
long interminable nights in the train, and there had 
been no room to lie down. Alda was sleepless and 
fretful, and the other passengers of varying na- 
tionalities had exhibited their wrath at being per- 
petually disturbed by her moaning cries. Rosina, 
who was more phlegmatic, slept better. Ursula had 
done her best to pacify the elder child; she had held 
her in her arms all through that dreadful second 
night, trying to hush her, and receiving no more 
thanks from Madame Garroni than a perfunctory: 
“How delightful to be so strong. Miss Finch. These 

I2I 


122 URSULA FINCH 

night journeys kill me. I am glad you bear them so 
well!” 

It was past seven o’clock in the morning when 
they approached Rome. Dawn that day had shown 
Ursula the Mediterranean coast, wonderfully 
painted in monochrome varying from pearl-white 
to deepest grey, all outlined with a clearness that 
was absolutely new to her. Now as they drew near 
Rome she could see the lovely Alban hills colored in 
soft pale tones, the towns that lay upon their slopes 
being visible as patches of brilliant whiteness flung 
against the subdued background. Alda had at last 
fallen asleep in the corner, and Ursula crept out 
into the corridor. There was a little stir among 
the passengers, who were collecting their hand-lug- 
gage in view of their approaching arrival. Ursula 
leaned her head out of the window and drank in 
deep draughts of the fresh delicious air. It was of 
a pure invigorating quality, as if it had come straight 
from the mountains to bathe the Campagna with its 
cool refreshing waves, and it acted like a restorative 
to the tired girl. It seemed to give her strength and 
courage, to take away that sick and giddy feeling 
which those two long nights in the hot train had pro- 
duced. Now she could see Rome lying out there 
in the middle of the plain. The Dome stood up, 
pale as a pearl, in all its noble, almost unearthly 
splendor. As Ursula recognized it Humphrey’s 
quotation came back to her mind. The one work 
of man that partook of the grandeur of the works 
of God. Rome — the heart of Christendom! And 
of this heart was not the Dome perhaps the intimate 
and visible expression? It rose above the spreading 
town, above the clustered roofs and the houses that 
shone white and cream and orange and honey-col- 
ored in the morning sunlight. Among so many lesser 
domes it stood up with an aloof, proud immensity. 


URSULA FINCH 


123 


Yet there was something delicate, almost fragile, 
about it, in spite of its size. Its pale hue of lilac- 
grey seemed to harmonize perfectly with the silver 
and blue of the sky. Ursula looked at it, absorbed 
and fascinated. No one disturbed her. The chil- 
dren were fast asleep, and Madame Garroni still 
snored in her corner. And all Rome lay outspread 
before her, magical in its dazzling splendor, gir- 
dled by its spring mantle of brilliant green, a green 
that sometimes was sharp and almost violent in its 
effect. To the north a mantle of dark green dusk 
garmented the confines of the city, and beautiful an- 
cient towers were outlined in pale silhouette against 
those distant woods. In the Campagna the poppies 
blossomed in broad scarlet-painted patches, a feast 
of color. There were glimpses of the river, pale, 
tortuous, a path of light. The Dome was much 
nearer now. 

The train rushed into the station. 

Now that the journey had really come to an end 
Ursula felt almost sorry. She knew that if she 
could only have made it alone and undisturbed it 
might have been one of the most delicious expe- 
riences of her life. The first sight of France, of 
Paris, the fields and vineyards, the laughing, blos- 
soming orchards, the little villages with their clus- 
tering red roofs, and perhaps the spire or tower of 
a church set protectively in the midst, would have 
entranced her as the vision of some new and lovely 
world. The first glimpse of the Alps, splendid in 
the early morning light, clad in the majesty of their 
eternal snows — yes, she would have loved to let her 
eyes dwell upon them while she drank in their 
beauty. Then the long and suffocating tunnel in 
which she was hardly able to breathe ; the first sight 
of Italy. The great towns of Turin and Genoa, 
the night journey along the coast, skirting Ma- 


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URSULA FINCH 


remma and the sea. The moonlight on the sea, a 
wonder of silver, paths of gleaming pallor upon a 
sea that rippled close to them like a great calm lake. 
She had seen these things only in fugitive glimpses. 
Little Alda crying and fretful with fever became 
every moment a more tedious burden. But already 
Ursula loved the child, who seemed to cling to her 
for consolation and comfort; the touch of the little 
warm body near her own awakened within her a 
curious maternal emotion. 

Madame Garroni pinned on her hat. 

“We must have two cabs,’’ she said in a firm 
voice. “We can’t all go in one with so much lug- 
gage.” She called to a porter in rapid English- 
Italian. “Why, there is Guido!” she exclaimed. “I 
never thought he would turn out so early, he hates 
getting up!” 

An elderly man, very stout and breathless, with 
grey hair, black eyes, and a rather luxuriant grey 
moustache, approached them. He was unshaven, 
and his dress was slovenly, as if his morning toi- 
lette had been of the briefest. He embraced his 
wife and the two children, and laughed at Alda, who 
began to cry because his moustache pricked her face. 
He grasped her more firmly in his arms and re- 
peated the kiss as if it amused him, and seemed to 
resent the fact that she redoubled her weary cries 
under the process. 

“Miss Finch, the new governess,” said Madame 
Garroni, indicating Ursula. Garroni made a sweep- 
ing bow and took her hand. 

“I hope you will like Rome very much indeed, 
‘mees’,” he said, in very slow, careful English. 

“Miss Finch had better take the children,” said 
Madame Garroni, “and you and I will go on first 
with most of the luggage. Why did you not bring 
Mario? He would have been useful to get our 
things through the customs for us.” 


URSULA FINCH 


125 


“I hope you have not brought a great deal,” said 
Guido Garroni, with a touch of irritability; “it is 
very expensive to travel with so much.” 

“There is only the usual amount,” replied his 
wife. “You would not wish me to come back 
empty-handed, would you? Things are cheaper in 
England, so I have saved the money in that way.” 

When they were all safely ensconced in the two 
cabs Ursula had the impression of being driven 
through endless streets, the wide, opulent streets 
of modern Rome, with their tram-lines, their im- 
mense shops, their gigantic palaces, which all min- 
gled so oddly with the glimpses of ancient ruins she 
had had just after leaving the station. The vast 
red-brick walls of the Baths of Diocletian in a set- 
ting of brilliant spring green had attracted her at- 
tention. She was struck, too, as most people are 
upon first arriving in Rome, by the number and 
beauty of the fountains, although she was still un- 
aware that to design a fountain was a task relegated 
to a master of sculpture in those bygone days when 
the arts so passionately flourished in Italy, and that 
Bernini, in the intervals of church building and dec- 
orating, made many a lovely fountain to touch to 
additional grace his beloved city. 

The cab passed through an immense white-tiled 
tunnel brilliantly lighted with electric light. Noisy 
trams dashed through alongside of them, awaken- 
ing Alda, who began to cry again, thinking that she 
was back in the train. The noise was hideous, and 
was made more unbearable by the warning bells of 
the trams that sounded almost ceaselessly. They 
emerged at last and went down a crowded street, 
rather narrow, and even at that hour crammed with 
traffic. They came quickly to the Piazzi di Spagna, 
and saw the tall flights of the Spanish steps ascend- 
ing to the Trinita dei Monti, whose twin towers were 
outlined beautifully against the warm, rich blue of 


126 


URSULA FINCH 


the sky. At the foot of the steps the flower-sellers 
were already arranging their stalls under the shel- 
ter of great white umbrellas. A man drove up in a 
cab that was completely filled with great branches of 
peach blossom. Ursula turned away from this 
feast of color with a little sigh. Their cab turned 
down a side street and stopped at last before a tall 
house, near the river, but not facing it. 

The second cab had already arrived, and Ursula 
saw Madame Garroni and her husband standing in 
the passage, which was rather dark and only vaguely 
illuminated by a solitary electric light. 

Madame Garroni began to mount the stairs, and 
Guido, preparing to follow her, lifted Rosina in his 
arms. He turned to Ursula. 

“Will you bring Alda, ‘mees’ ?*’ he said. Then struck 
perhaps Tby the girl’s pallor, her look of fatigue, he 
added: “You must be tired. I will come down to 
see about the luggage, the porter will look after it 
till then.” 

The stairs were both steep and interminable. It 
was with some difficulty that Ursula induced little 
Alda to scale them. They were marble steps and 
ascended flight after flight. Ursula was exhausted 
long before she reached the top, and Alda was cry- 
ing again from the exertion imposed. At each land- 
ing Ursula hoped that Madame Garroni would 
pause; she was filled with that formless depression 
that commonly assails persons in new and unat- 
tractive surroundings. She had a longing to be 
alone that she might cry. Tears would relieve her. 

They stopped at last before a door at the very top 
of the house. Garroni stepped forward and fitted a 
key into the lock. They entered a long narrow 
passage. 

“Anna I Anna I” called Madame Garroni. 

A stout, handsome girl, with black hair beauti- 


URSULA FINCH 


127 


fully dressed, appeared from a distant obscurity 
that Ursula afterward learned was the kitchen. She 
was carelessly attired in a loose cotton negligee, and 
she wore neither cap nor apron. She addressed Ma- 
dame Garroni in a tone that sounded almost inso- 
lently familiar to Ursula’s ears, although she did 
not of course understand the purpose of the speech. 
But she stooped and kissed the children in a hearty, 
affectionate way that displayed her evident devotion 
to them. 

“Is the coffee ready?” said Madame Garroni. 
“We are all famished, and we must have it at 
once !” 

signora. It is ready.” 

“Bring it into the dining-room at once.” 
signora!^ 

“Show the signorina to the children’s room.” 
signora!^ 

The girl beckoned to Ursula and escorted her 
down the passage, which was long, uncarpeted, and 
rather dark. The floor was covered, as were all 
the floors in the flat, with red tiles. At the end of 
•"his passage she flung open a door. Ursula saw a 
room with one largish iron bed, painted brown, and 
two small cribs. There were two chairs, a ward- 
robe, a washstand, and a large chest of drawers, 
and as the room was not large, it had the appear- 
ance of being over-crowded with furniture. The 
walls were distempered and bare. The window 
looked out upon innumerable roofs, and beyond this 
there was no view. 

Ursula looked at her bed with an agony of long- 
ing. It was not as yet quite nine o’clock, and she 
wondered how many hours would have to elapse 
before she could lay her head on the pillow and 
sleep — and sleep. For two nights she had not been 
to bed at all, and she had scarcely slept for a con- 


128 


URSULA FINCH 


secutive half hour. She had a feeling that if she 
did not obtain some sleep very soon she would go 
mad. The children, who had followed her into the 
room, began to squabble and cry. She turned to 
pacify them. Anna had already gone away to pre- 
pare the breakfast. 

All Ursula’s imaginings of what a Roman house 
would be like had been abruptly destroyed by the 
reality. She had pictured something large and spa- 
cious, opulent yet severe, in short the splendid an- 
cient Roman palace with which novels and books 
of travel have made people sufficiently familiar. 
But this small and inconvenient flat perched at the 
top of a high and narrow house, approached by 
those apparently interminable flights of steep stairs, 
its rooms crowded to excess — as she soon discovered 
— with heavy, enormous furniture, that seemed to 
choke them and deprive them of light and air, was 
a very disagreeable revelation to her. Madame 
Garroni had, whether purposely or not, it would 
be difficult to say, given her quite a false impression 
of both her abode and her social standing. Her 
husband was employed in the shop of a large engi- 
neering firm, on whose business he also occasionally 
traveled, and he spent most of the day from home, 
returning, however, as a rule, for the mid-day meal. 
He was indolent and good-natured, although sub- 
ject to fits of violent rage when anything annoyed 
him ; he was devoted to his wife and children, espe- 
cially to little Alda, who was so much more Italian 
in appearance than her sister. He belonged to the 
lower rather than to the higher bourgeoisie. Of 
social standing Madame Garroni had none; she was 
worse off in this respect than she had been at Pen- 
zance. She had carelessly drifted into the rather 
slovenly habits of the class into which she had mar- 
ried, and had become negligent and untidy in her 


URSULA FINCH 


129 


person. It was, of course, impossible for Anna to 
do all the work of the flat and to cook for seven 
people as well, and hitherto Madame Garroni had 
had to give her personal assistance and had also 
looked after the children herself. She had for some 
time past felt the need of someone young and ca- 
pable, who was willing to help her in all these tasks. 
Someone cheap and tractable, and who could not 
bounce off at a moment’s notice. All through the 
journey, especially when she saw how readily Ur- 
sula took charge of little Alda, she was congratulat- 
ing herself upon the treasure she had, by such good 
fortune, secured. She was aware that in England 
Ursula would never have accepted a post in such a 
household; she would have aimed at something 
higher. She was a lady, and she had had too good 
an education to undertake so much for such a tiny 
salary. And then in England people didn’t expect 
their nursery-governesses to do the work of a gen- 
eral servant. 

There was a hasty meal of coffee and dry bread 
in the dining-room. Garroni had already had his 
coffee before coming to the station, but he sat with 
them for a few minutes smoking a long thin cigar 
of the kind that is called a toscana, the odor of which 
made Ursula feel rather sick after the prolonged 
shaking she had endured in the train. However, he 
was obliged to go away to his business soon, and an 
affectionate leave-taking was effected between him 
and his wife. Little Alda did not cry this time when 
he kissed her; she was too busy dipping the fingers 
of bread into her coffee, and then eating them. Ur- 
sula, unaccustomed to the foreign habit of “dipping,” 
ate her bread, and found it very dry ; she had some 
difficulty in finishing it. When the meal was over 
Madame Garroni told her to put the children to 
bed. 


130 


URSULA FINCH 


“They will be out of your way then,” she said, 
“and it will give you more space in which to do your 
own unpacking and theirs. Anna must go and do 
the marketing. I will tell her to give you some hot 
water, the children need a good wash after their 
journey.” 

Ursula hoped that if she accomplished these tasks 
with sufficient celerity, she would be able to snatch 
an hour or two of sleep before luncheon. She took 
the children into the nursery, and Anna, with an 
air of protest, brought her a large jug of hot water. 
The children were already in bed when Madame 
Garroni put her head into the room. 

“When you have done the unpacking here you can 
come and help me with mine,” she announced, “for 
the present I am going to lie down. I am nearly 
dead.” 

It did not occur to her that Ursula was also 
nearly dead with fatigue. Dizzy and feeling sick 
and thoroughly unnerved, the girl began to open the 
trunks that contained her own and the children’s 
things. She moved as noiselessly as she could, for 
Alda and Rosina had both promptly fallen asleep, 
and she did not wish to disturb them. She envied 
them their deep slumbers. When her task was 
done she crept upon her own bed and lay down. 
Surely Madame Garroni would still be resting. It 
could not be time as yet to go and proffer her assist- 
ance in the matter of unpacking. Ursula’s eyes 
closed almost before her head had touched the pil- 
low. 


CHAPTER XIII 


T T RSULA was roughly awakened by a series of 
^ sounds that penetrated across and mingled with 
her dream of traveling through a long, dark and 
noisy tunnel. A shrill cry, a banging door, a succes- 
sion of loud and angry words aroused her definitely 
from her slumbers, and she felt a none too gentle 
hand seize her by the shoulder and give her a sharp 
shake. She looked up in terror, not realizing in the 
least where she was, and she saw bending over her 
the angry, heated countenance of Madame Gar- 
roni. Somewhere in the room the two children 
were crying querulously; it was the sound of their 
clamoring, unchecked and unsilenced, that had first 
aroused the attention of their mother, whose room 
was only just across the passage. 

Madame Garroni seemed to have changed in a 
sudden, inexplicable manner. In place of the 
slightly over-dressed woman who had stared patron- 
izingly at Ursula in the shabby Pentarn rectory, she 
appeared now with tousled hair all awry, and a face 
that had not been washed since her arrival. She 
was garbed in a loose cotton negligee of some faded 
green material, ornamented with sprigs that had 
once been mauve. She had flung off also something 
of that veneer of good manners which she had found 
necessary on the occasion of her visit to Mrs. Finch. 

“Miss Finch! I am astonished at you! Did you 
forget my orders about the unpacking? I did not 
bring you out to Rome to sleep half the day!” 

Ursula rubbed her eyes and descended slowly 
from the bed. In her stockinged feet she was con- 
siderably smaller than Madame Garroni, and she 
felt at a disadvantage. 


131 


132 


URSULA FINCH 


“I did finish the unpacking, y she said, in a bewil- 
dered tone, for she still felt giddy and unrefreshed. 
“The boxes are quite empty.” 

“Then why did you not come immediately to my 
room to help me with mine ? Did you imagine you 
had come here to do a rest-cure?” 

“I thought you were still asleep,” said Ursula. 

“You thought! What business had you to think? 
You are not here to think, you are here to do exactly 
what you are told! I never allow any servants of 
mine to sleep in the daytime.” 

Ursula overlooked the insult which the words im- 
plied. She was still apologetic, still a trifle ashamed 
of having fallen asleep and slept so soundly. She 
supposed that she had really done wrong, and that 
she deserved to be scolded. She had always lived 
at home, where she had been accustomed to contin- 
ual reprimand, for the things she had done and the 
things she had not done; for the short-comings of 
Nicholas and Ruth which she was told she might 
have prevented with the exercise of a little sisterly 
forethought; for the way she spoke, and looked, and 
held herself. And she had come to think that it was 
her lot in life to fail, and then to be rebuked or 
punished for her failure. It had given her such a 
low opinion of herself that she accepted the blame 
as well-merited. Only Humphrey Willmot had 
ever praised and admired her, and had found no 
fault with her. 

“I was so very tired after the journey,” she said. 
“I have never made a long journey before. I have 
had no sleep for two nights.” 

She glanced at Alda. Wouldn’t Madame Gar- 
roni remember perhaps that she had held the child 
in her arms all through that second night of their 
journey? Held her till she too grew hot and fever- 
ish with fatigue, till her head and eyes seemed to be 


URSULA FINCH 


133 

on fire, and her feet were stone-cold in the boots 
that had grown too tight for them. 

' “Well, I will overlook it this once,” said Madame 
Garroni, in a more mollified tone, “Come and help 
me with my things. Yes, Alda and Rosina, you may 
come too, but you must be quiet and not quarrel, 
and not touch anything.” 

Two large trunks, besides various grips and hold- 
alls and bags, had to be dealt with. Certainly Ma- 
dame Garroni had not stinted herself in the matter 
of fine wearing-apparel, even if her taste did fre- 
quently err in the matter of gaudy coloring. Some 
of the dresses were very fashionable, and there were 
some white embroidered ones that would have been 
more suited to Ursula’s slim, girlish figure than to 
her own. 

“In Rome it gets very hot in the summer, and we 
can not always go to the seaside, it is so costly. One 
really wants things that are suited to the tropics,” 
she said, laying the white muslin dresses upon the 
bed. They were a little crushed. 

“I dare say you will be able to iron them. Miss 
Finch. This girl I have now is rather stupid and 
untrained. I dislike ironing them myself — it makes 
one so hot!” 

The unpacking was still very far from being ac- 
complished when the front door opened and a man’s 
heavy tread was heard in the passage. He shouted, 
“Arabella — ^Arabella I” giving the Italian pronunci- 
ation to his wife’s name. 

“There’s Guido,” she said, “and he’ll want his 
lunch ; he hates being kept waiting. It always puts 
him in a temper.” She rose from her knees, and 
giving her head a hasty pat with her hand she went 
quickly out of the room. Ursula heard her go into 
the kitchen, and from the intonation of her voice 


134 


URSULA FINCH 


she concluded that she was scolding Anna for not 
being ready. 

When they were all seated at table an aged 
woman came into the room and took her place be- 
tween her son and Ursula. She was very deeply 
wrinkled and her skin looked like parchment. Her 
coarse, grey hair was still abundant, but she dragged 
it back from her forehead and temples in a manner 
that was quite merciless. She had small, piercing 
black eyes, that regarded Ursula with a kind of ma- 
levolent scrutiny. She was extraordinarily witch- 
like, and seemed to require only the traditional 
black cat and broomstick to complete her appear- 
ance. 

Guido wished her good-morning and she nodded 
in reply. The conversation, which was at no time 
very animated, was carried on entirely in Italian, 
and so was incomprehensible to Ursula. Anna 
brought in the dishes and set them on the table, and 
Madame Garroni helped them all. When it came 
to Ursula's turn she gave her the most microscopic 
helpings, nor did she ever ask her if she would like 
a second portion. She and her husband and his an- 
cient mother all drank wine, but Ursula was not 
offered any. 

After luncheon Guido smoked a cigar, drank a 
large cup of black coffee, and then departed to his 
business. Madame Garroni told Ursula to put the 
children to bed for a couple of hours, and then to 
come and finish the unpacking. It was after four 
o’clock when this task was finally achieved, and then 
Madame Garroni said: 

“You had better go into the kitchen and make the 
tea. I am sure Anna does not know how to make 
it properly. I used always to do it myself, but now 
that you are here I shall leave it to you.” 

Anna was sulky when Ursula came into the kit- 


URSULA FINCH 


135 


chen. She pretended at first not to understand what 
she wanted, and Ursula was unable to find anything 
she required without her assistance. After some 
searching she succeeded in discovering the tea in a 
large glass-stopped bottle. There was a gas-ring, 
and she put the kettle on to boil. Anna, no longer 
able to pretend ignorance of what was required, now 
produced a tin of stale biscuits and some slices of 
bread. Ursula put everything on a tray, and Anna 
carried it sullenly into the sitting-room. 

All the time Ursula could not help thinking: “So 
I am really one of the servants. I wonder when 
she will let me go to bed. I am so tired that if they 
would only let me go to bed I would not ask for 
anything more to eat to-day I” 

“You must wake the children and make them tidy. 
They have their tea with us, it saves trouble.” 
Madame Garroni’s voice was sharp and authori- 
tative. She hoped that Ursula was not going to 
prove tiresome and indolent. 

Ursula drank a cup of tea, but she felt that food 
would choke her. The day’s work was, however, 
not yet over. After tea Madame Garroni said: 

“The children must go out or they won’t sleep. 
You must take them up to the Pincio. Anna can go 
with you to-day, to show you the way.” 

Anna grumbled when she received the order to 
show the “mees” the way to the Pincio. She had 
hoped that now the “mees” had come she would be 
absolved from having to take the children out. She 
was fond of children — as indeed nearly all Italians 
are — but she had a strong objection to being made 
to wheel a perambulator, and until quite lately little 
Rosina, who was supposed to suffer from weak 
ankles, had always had to be wheeled up the hill. 
Anna considered it derogatory to have to push a 
perambulator. But the “mees” being English 


136 


URSULA FINCH 


would not mind. The English were a strange 
people. In her heart she thought the “mees” must 
be very foolish, indeed, to come so far in order to 
act as hamhinaia to the signora’s children. 

It was a steep hot walk up to the Pincio. Al- 
though it was only May, the sun had considerable 
power, and coming, as she did, from the bleak and 
bracing climate of Pentarn Ursula felt unusually 
exhausted by the heat. Her clothes were rather too 
heavy for the season, and her boots, which she had 
worn almost continuously for nearly three days, hurt 
her feet. But on the Pincio there was a delicious 
breeze that stirred like music in the tall pines and 
ilex-trees, and did certainly assist in reviving her. 
A band was playing, and people were loitering about, 
singly or in groups. Swift beautiful motors were to 
be seen, and in some of them Ursula caught glimpses 
of lovely dark-eyed Italian women accompanied by 
dainty doll-like children. Around her she saw many 
girls with charming, smiling, happy faces. There 
were ecclesiastical students, moving in groups apart 
from the rest; gay young officers in effective uni- 
forms; prettily-clad children accompanied by smart 
English nurses in starched white attire and close 
black bonnets. 

The scene was completely new to Ursula, she 
had known nothing in all her previous experience to 
which she could compare it. She had never been 
in Hyde Park on a sunny June day, or watched the 
London children at play in Kensington Gardens. 
But it told her of wealth and ease and, above all, of 
leisure. There seemed to be no tired faces. For 
the most part these were people who need never be 
tired unless they exerted themselves too strenuously 
in the cause of pleasure. They drove about in swift, 
sumptuous motors, receiving their friends, amusing 
themselves. With a shock she remembered that this 


URSULA FINCH 


137 


was Humphrey’s world. Had he been there he 
would perhaps have discovered many friends, and 
he would never have looked for her among them. 
If he had done so he would have found her wheel- 
ing Rosina in her little mail-cart, keeping watch 
upon Alda, who was, however, still too tired to stray 
far from her side. She was conscious of a group 
of English nurses, eyeing her a little distance away, 
perhaps wondering who she was, so obviously Eng- 
lish and strange. 

It was the beauty of the scene that held her 
transfixed at last as the hour of sunset drew near, 
and the sky to the west became one broad blaze of 
crimson and gold. Against it the Dome of St. 
Peter’s was outlined clearly in dark purple. Monte 
Mario to the north was washed in the pink glow 
that enveloped the whole of Rome, the clustered 
roofs, the innumerable domes and spires, the masses 
of cream-colored houses that lay huddled at her 
feet. It was wonderful in its splendor, and she 
thought she could never forget it. She had never 
seen anything so beautiful before, and it took her 
out of herself, and made her forget all the petty 
worries and troubles of the day. It evoked in her 
a courageous determination to make the best of 
things, to work hard and diligently, and in this way 
to please her employer, although she knew that this 
could never be an easy matter. Madame Garroni 
was a woman who was obviously bent on exacting 
her pound of flesh, and already she had made con- 
siderable demands upon Ursula’s strength. Still she 
had come here to work, and not to be idle ; to earn 
her salary, and to relieve her parents. But she 
could not allow herself to think of Pentarn this 
evening. It was too soon, the pain of leaving them 
all, especially Ruth, who had utterly broken down 
at the parting, was too recent. And in the same 


URSULA FINCH 


138 

way she knew that it would be wisest never to let 
her thoughts wilfully dwell upon Humphrey Will- 
mot. He had passed out of her life. She could 
never be grateful enough to him for all his kind- 
ness, for his sympathetic interest in her, above all 
for the books which she had hidden away in a 
drawer, hoping that some day she might have leisure 
to read them. Nearly a week had passed since she 
had said good-by to him at the gate, and it seemed 
to her like an eternity. She was wise enough to 
see that her life was set in quite different paths from 
his, and that to contemplate him too frequently 
would only weaken her high resolve to make the 
present work she had to do a success. 

She rose suddenly from the stone seat on which 
she had been sitting gazing at Rome lying under 
that wonderful crimson sky. 

“Come, children,” she said, “it is time to go 
home.” 

As she wheeled little Rosina down the hill a 
jangle of sweet bells fell upon her ear. They seemed 
to be echoed from every church tower in Rome. It 
was the evening Ave Maria ringing through Rome 
at sunset. 


CHAPTER XIV 


O NE of the clearest impressions that Ursula al- 
ways retained of those first days in Rome was 
the inexplicable, silent, but quite obvious hostility 
displayed toward herself by old Signora Garroni. 

She was unconscious of having said or done any- 
thing that could possibly offend her, and she had 
almost concluded that she had aroused one of those 
reasonless dislikes which may affect anyone, and 
which have no basis beyond that of a personal an- 
tipathy. Perhaps she did not like English people. 
In aiw case, Ursula often found the old woman’s 
eyes fixed curiously upon her with a look of disap- 
proval that at first discouraged her. 

She never, however, saw her except at meals, for 
Signora Garroni kept to her room during the rest of 
the day. It was a small dark room, overlooking the 
courtyard and the backs of the other flats that sur- 
rounded it on all sides. This outlook, a sufficiently 
gloomy one, was shared only by Mario’s room and 
the kitchen. Madame Garroni had insisted upon 
retaining the pick of the rooms for herself and her 
children. 

However, Ursula was not long left in the dark 
about this and also about certain other matters 
which at first had bewildered and perplexed her. She 
observed, almost at once, that Guido Garroni and 
his mother were not at all on good terms. Some- 
times, in the evening especially, he would sit with 
her in her room for a short time, and then loud 
voices, raised in heated altercation, could be heard. 
They were evidently quarreling. As for Madame 
Garroni she took scant notice of her mother-in-law, 
and her manner toward her was so abrupt as to 
139 


140 


URSULA FINCH 


sound uncivil. Ursula was still wondering if these 
things would ever be adequately explained to her, 
when the arrival of Mario Linelli upon the scene 
helped to clear up much that was mysterious and 
bewildering. 

Ursula was on the Pincio with her two charges 
one hot evening at the beginning of June, when a 
young, athletic-looking man sauntered up to her. 
He lifted Alda up in his arms and kissed her, and 
then performed the same ceremony with Rosina. 
It was evident that he was no stranger to Alda, al- 
though little Rosina had almost forgotten him. Alda 
cried out in a tone of great joy: “Uncle Mario! 
Uncle Mario 1” and clung to his hand. 

A rapid conversation took place in Italian with 
the two children, and then little Alda rather shyly 
indicated Ursula, who sat there watching the little 
scene. 

She did not know why, but she had always rather 
dreaded the return of Mario. The flat seemed 
hopelessly over-crowded as it was, and Anna’s 
hands were already so full that it gave Ursula extra 
work to do, for she was always being asked to go 
and help in the kitchen. She was afraid, too, that 
the young man, when he did come, might take a vio- 
lent dislike to her, just as his grandmother had done. 
Mario was the only child of old Signora Garroni’s 
daughter, who had died when he was born. His 
father had died not long afterward, and so he had 
been practically brought up by his grandmother, 
who adored him. 

He came up to her now with a bright, winning 
smile, and held out his hand. He was young, per- 
haps about her own age, and he was very good- 
looking. He was thin and tall, with very thick 
dark hair and large, wide-open brown eyes. 

“How do you do, ‘mees’?” he said, in quite good 


URSULA FINCH 


141 

English; “I heard you had come to Rome with my 
aunt.” 

“Yes,” said Ursula; “we arrived last week.” 

“I am Mario. You must have heard them speak 
of Mario?” 

“Yes, I have heard of you.” 

He sat down by her side on the low stone seat, 
and began to chatter quite confidentially. 

“I hope you will be happy in Rome, ‘mees’,” was 
his first remark; “there is very much to interest you 
here. I hope my aunt is not too strict with you. 
She keeps us all in order, but my uncle is very wise ; 
he does not make a fuss. I have come home now 
for a few weeks.” 

“Yes?” said Ursula. She felt slightly embar- 
rassed by the frank scrutiny he bestowed upon her. 
No man had ever looked at her in that way before 
except Humphrey Willmot. And even Humphrey 
had never bestowed upon her such a searching 
glance that certainly betrayed more curiosity than 
admiration. Yet, there was admiration, too, for 
Ursula, despite her raven black hair and dark grey 
eyes, had the fair skin of the north, which always 
excites a wondering admiration in the sons of the 
south. 

He was thinking she was really very pretty, and 
she looked quiet and serious and good. His grand- 
mother had told him that she was a heretic — a pas- 
tor’s daughter — and that her coming would put an 
end to all hope of the children being brought up as 
Catholics. He had just come from that interview, 
during which she had wept and told him that there 
was nothing left for her to do but to die. Guido’s 
wickedness was going to be visited upon his poor 
little children. This English “mees,” she assured 
him, would only aid and abet Arabella in her fixed 
determination to bring up her children as Protest- 


142 


URSULA FINCH 


ants. Probably it was for that reason she had 
chosen a clergyman’s daughter to be their nurse. 
She stormed and raved over this last disaster, and 
Mario had some difficulty in pacifying her. She 
would always go back to the past when Guido was 
a little boy, so pious, so devout, an altar-boy, who 
never missed his monthly communion. But when 
he grew up he got into bad company, and was per- 
suaded to join the Freemasons. And since then he 
had given up practising his religion, and was angry 
if he heard it mentioned. He owed his advance- 
ment to the Freemasons, and now he went in fear 
of offending them. That was why he refused to let 
his children be baptized by the priest. 

Mario had heard all this countless times, but it 
never failed to arouse extremely uncomfortable 
feelings within him. He was very fond of his 
grandmother, and he pitied her deeply, but he 
longed for peace in his home. He secretly disliked 
Arabella almost as much as she did, and Guido was 
an object of both horror and compassion to him. 
It was an uncomfortable position for a young man 
to live in this house so divided against itself, and 
he had a great longing to know what sort of an 
impression it had produced upon this young English 
girl who had been flung so suddenly into their midst. 

What did she think of this strange Italian house- 
hold? What was there in the personality of Ara- 
bella to tempt or encourage her to come so far? 
She was poor, of course, he could tell that from the 
shabbiness of her shoes, of her general attire. But 
something told him that although poor, she was un- 
doubtedly signorile, and must have sprung from a 
very different class from that to which his aunt be- 
longed. 

He began to ask her about her journey, and was 
horrified to find she had spent two nights in the 


URSULA FINCH 


H3 

train without any adequate rest, occupied for the 
most part in looking after little Alda. 

“My aunt never has any consideration for 
others,” he told her; “no servant ever stays very long 
with her. She is often reduced to doing all the 
cooking and housework herself because the maid 
has left at a moment’s notice I Now that you are 
here I suppose she will make you do the work in- 
stead.” 

“But I am not a cook,” she protested; “I am a 
nursery-governess, and she only engaged me to take 
entire charge of the children.” 

“Do you think that will matter to her? You 
don’t know my aunt, if you think she will care about 
that. You will be sent off to the kitchen one of 
these fine days. May I ask, please, what made you 
come? Could you not go to nice people in your 
own country?” 

“It just happened,” confessed Ursula, “her sis- 
ter lives near us in Cornwall. I wasn’t looking for 
anything, but she came one day and asked me to 
go back to Rome with her. I didn’t want to come, 
but my parents wished it. I had to do as I was 
told.” 

So she had come against her will 1 Why had she 
not rebelled? What brutes her parents must be I 

“I am going to tell you frankly that it was a 
great pity you came. No, Alda, run away, I am 
talking to ‘mees.’ I will talk to you presently if you 
will go and play with Rosina now. Let me see, 
what was I saying?” 

“You told me,” said Ursula, “that it was a pity 
I had come.” She was both pained and disturbed 
by his frank statement, yet she felt that he had not 
meant to be unkind or discouraging. Why wasn’t 
she a success? Why was her failure taken for 
granted in this way? She longed to ask him. 


144 


URSULA FINCH 


‘‘You see in the family we don’t like Arabella,” 
he continued; “we think Guido would have done 
better to have married an Italian wife, who could 
have helped him. Now his children are being 
brought up as Protestants.” 

“I am a Protestant myself,” said Ursula, quietly. 

“Yes, I heard that you were. Arabella is against 
the Catholic religion; that was no doubt one of her 
reasons for bringing you. But it will not help these 
poor children, will it?” 

“Still, they are half English. Why shouldn’t 
they be brought up in their mother’s faith? We 
Protestants are not heathens.” She was a little in- 
dignant. 

“They are Italian,” he said abruptly, “and they 
have been deprived of their most precious heritage. 
You will think I am very bigoted and strict, but I am 
not the only one who feels it. My poor old grand- 
mother is utterly miserable. You see she spends 
half her life praying for Guido and his children, and 
now that you have come she feels that there is one 
person more to fight against her.” 

“Why should she think that? I am not going 
to interfere. I only do what Madame Garroni tells 
me.” Ursula spoke warmly. The feeling that she 
was not welcome in the Garroni family humiliated 
her. She^ felt, despite her dependent position, 
greatly their superior. 

“No, you won’t interfere, but you’ll crystallize 
existing conditions. You’ll make it, in short, impos- 
sible for my grandmother to interfere.” 

“Look there.” He waved his hand — a long, 
slight hand — in the direction of St. Peter’s, outlined 
splenchdly against the warm blue of the Roman 
sky. “Look at the Dome — at all the smaller domes 
that strew Rome from end to end. Look at the 
hundreds of churches, dating, some of them, from 


URSULA FINCH 


145 


the very days of the apostles! It’s that faith we 
desire for ourselves and our children, and who- 
ever tries to give them anything else — anything less 
than the whole truth — is giving them a stone instead 
of the Living Bread!” His eyes were shining. 

She was reminded, almost against her will, of 
Humphrey Willmot. Only he had never spoken 
with this passion, a passion born, as she knew, of 
true knowledge. 

“Do you know that people have called those very 
domes Rome’s reply to the Reformation? She 
built, she taught, she founded her fighting, preach- 
ing Orders — Jesuits, Oratorians, and the rest! Not 
cloistered any more, but coming out into the world 
to teach, to save.” ^ 

“You believe in it then?” she said. 

He had given her a glimpse of something larger 
than anything she had known at Pentarn. Some- 
thing that filled the world. You met it wherever 
you went in Rome. Mario’s words had carried her 
away. She seemed to breathe a freer air. It was 
this then of which Crashaw, the convert-poet, had 
written : 

Look up, languishing soul! Lo, where the fair 
Badge of thy faith calls back thy care, 

And bids thee ne’er forget 
Thy life is one long debt 
Of love to Him, Who on this painful tree 
Paid back the flesh He took for thee. 

“Yes, yes, I believe in it. One is careless, one 
forgets, but it is always there, calling to us, calling 
like a voice.” His face was turned away from her. 
“However far we stray it nearly always calls us 
back, at least before we die.” 

Ursula was aware then that he possessed some- 
thing that she had not, something that on the spirit- 
ual plane was both vital and powerful. It was 
something that could rule and govern and sway. 


146 


URSULA FINCH 


and color all one’s life and thoughts. Many things 
that Humphrey had said came back to her then. 
But he had only spoken with partial knowledge. 
Mario had the deeper knowledge of the man who 
was a Catholic, who valued his heritage of faith, 
and conceived it as an irremediable disaster that his 
uncle’s children should be deprived of it. 

He had shown her, too, the reason for the inexpli- 
cable hostility which old Signora Garroni had dis- 
played toward her. 

It was the hour of sunset, always the signal for 
their return home. There was a lovely rose-col- 
ored light painting the western sky, and against it 
Monte Mario with its thick woods of pine trees 
was darkly stenciled. The Dome stood ^ pansy- 
colored, dominating the whole scene. The long 
ridge of the Janiculum made a straight line sharp 
as a sword’s edge against the sky. And below at 
their feet the beautiful city lay outspread, golden, 
honey-colored, grey and cream, a vision of proud 
domes and towers and ancient roofs. 

The Ave Maria bells began to ring from every 
church tower, and Mario sprang up, crossed him- 
self and muttered some prayers. Little Alda ran 
up to him and followed his example, while Rosina 
looked on with a puzzled expression on her fair 
baby face. Mario bent down and kissed Alda. “So 
you haven’t forgotten carinaT* he said, with a queer 
husky tone in his voice. 

“No, but Rosina has.” 

“Rosina will remember better when she’s older.” 

“We must be going,” said Ursula, at once touched 
and slightly puzzled by the little scene. She longed 
to ask Mario why he had prayed when the church 
bells rang those three sharp notes, which were so 
quickly followed by four others, and then by five. 
It was all immensely puzzling, and unlike Pentarn. 


URSULA FINCH 


147 


“Here Rosina, get into your mail-cart. You’re 
getting too big to be wheeled about like this. No, 
‘mees,’ I shall wheel her down the hill myself, she’s 
far too heavy for you.” 

At the dark entrance to the house he took leave 
of them. 

“I told Arabella that I should not be in to dinner 
to-night,” he said; “but perhaps to-morrow we shall 
meet again.” 

He kissed the children, and then lifting his hat 
made a bow and walked back into the street. 


CHAPTER XV 


M ario made a frequent habit of meeting Ursula 
and the children on the Pincio toward the end 
of the evening, and of wheeling little Rosina down 
the hill. Whether Madame Garroni knew of these 
meetings or not it was difficult to say, but in any 
case she made no comment. She could very easily 
have learned about them from the children, but Ur- 
sula soon discovered that Alda, the elder and more 
intelligent of the two, was a little afraid of her 
mother and never talked to her frankly. 

Ursula learned from Mario a great deal about 
the Garroni household, of which she might other- 
wise have remained in perfect ignorance. She knew 
now that he was the only child of Guido’s sister who 
had died when he was born, and that he had been 
piously^ brought up by his old grandmother. It was 
only since Guido’s marriage that he and Signora 
Garroni had come to live with him in Rome, and 
the arrangement was not a particularly happy one, 
although it was an economical one for all parties. 
The flat just held them all, and rents were very high 
in Rome. Mario also informed her that he was 
twenty-four years of age — she had imagined him to 
be even less — and was an electrical engineer, and a 
great believer in the future of the “white coal” as it 
is called in Italy. He had spent a year or two in 
America, where he had learned to speak English. 
He was the least affected of anyone by the discom- 
fort of the household, for like most Italians he pre- 
ferred to take his meals in a restaurant, and only 
returned home to sleep. 

It was he, too, who first informed Ursula that 
Garroni was a Freemason, saying it too in such a 
tone that she perceived it meant for him the lowest 
148 


URSULA FINCH 149 

depth of moral iniquity. She was astonished at this 
attitude. 

“But why shouldn't he be one? Heaps of people 
— well-known people — in England are Masons.” 

Mario looked at her with his grave, steady, young 
eyes. 

“I believe In England they are not affiliated to the 
Grand Orient, which governs them here and in 
France. In a Protestant country they may matter 
less, they have sworn no enmity to the Protestant 
church. Here a Freemason must give up his reli- 
gion. That is why it has been called the devil’s 
church, erected to oppose the Church of Christ. A 
Freemason will not permit a priest to enter his 
house, either to baptize his children or to give the 
last Sacraments to a dying member of his house- 
hold. That is what they are out to destroy.” He 
Indicated, with a slight bow of his head, the Dome, 
with the immense buildings of the Vatican palace 
grouped around it. 

Something in his manner filled Ursula with an un- 
comfortable sensation, as if she had suddenly be- 
come aware of the existence of dominating sinister 
forces. The spirits of wickedness in the high places. 
She had often wondered what St. Paul had really 
meant by that. Our wrestling is not against flesh 
and blood but against principalities and powers, 
against the rulers of trie world of this darkness. 
Was that warfare still continuing? Mario’s speech 
had imbued those very words with a new signifi- 
cance that was almost terrifying. She had yet to 
learn that the activity of that same spirit of evil is 
never so fiercely, so tirelessly energetic, as in those 
countries where the Catholic Church holds open and 
sole spiritual sway. 

She shivered a little in spite of herself. And 


URSULA FINCH 


ijo 

something in the attentive attitude of this Protestant 
“mees” encouraged Mario to proceed. 

“I had a friend — we were working in the same 
town in the Veneto — and one day he told me that 
he had never been baptized, he knew nothing of our 
holy religion. His mother was dead, and his father 
was a Freemason, and would not even permit his 
children to pronounce the name of God. There are 
no fanatics so fierce, so tyrannical, so intolerant as 
the Freemasons. Little by little I taught Stefano- — 
that was my friend’s name — a good deal, and I in- 
troduced him to a priest. I went away, and some 
months later he told me that he had been baptized, 
had made his confession and his first communion. 
I could tell by his letters that he was very happy. 
Then he went home for a holiday. His father lived 
in Florence. Of course, he did not tell anyone ex- 
cept one of his sisters, who had also secretly become 
a Catholic. Then he fell ill, and the doctor told them 
all that he was dying. His sister went to a priest 
and begged him to come. The priest dressed him- 
self in plain clothes and went round to the house. 
He knew if he were to go dressed as a priest that 
he would never be admitted. But though the father 
opened the door to him and he believed that he 
recognized him, he allowed him to go up to Ste- 
fano’s room. The boy made his confession, and 
received Extreme Unction and the Viaticum. He 
made a most holy death. When the priest was go- 
ing away the father went up to him and thanked 
him. ‘I know who you are,’ he said, ‘and I thank 
you for coming dressed as you are. Had you come 
dressed as a priest I could not have admitted you, 
it would have compromised me with my employers. 
But I knew my son wished for a priest, I guessed 
that he had become a Catholic, because he has con- 
tinually during his illness recited prayers aloud to 


URSULA FINCH 


151 

Our Lady, and made repeated acts of contrition. 
So I thank you for coming.’ That is a true story, 
and it will give you some idea of the horrible tyr- 
anny these men exercise over those who are in their 
toils. And then people talk of the tyranny of 
priests who desire only to make them the bondmen 
of Christ!” 

He took Ursula into a new world. Never before 
in her life had she heard mention of such things 
as these, of the ceaseless activities of diabolical 
agencies to capture and enslave the souls of men. 
The spirits of wickedness in the high places. Not 
human agencies, not enemies of flesh and blood, 
open and apparent, but secret, malignant forces, ar- 
mored to fight against the Church of Christ, ever 
seeking to undo the work of the Redemption. 

This religion of which Mario was now speaking 
to her was a living vital force ; it seemed to have no 
connection at all with the one which was practised 
at Pentarn, chiefly on Sundays. It was something 
that ruled and controlled the lives of men, suavely 
and yet powerfully, actuated by the sole aim of sav- 
ing their souls. Confession, prayers to Our Lady, 
Extreme Unction and the Viaticum — these surely 
were numbered among the Errors of Rome against 
which Mr. Finch’s diatribes had been so frequently 
pronounced. But Pentarn and its standards seemed 
very far away from Ursula at that moment. She 
felt for the first time as if Pentarn had cast her out. 
She was freed from it, her life was in her own hands 
to make and shape as she would. Here was a wider 
world, where the Eternal Truth was at war with the 
Father of Lies. 

One day, however, Mario showed a certain tact- 
lessness by saying abruptly: 

“Perhaps some day you will become a Catholic, 


152 


URSULA FINCH 


Miss Finch. My grandmother is always praying 
for your conversion.” 

iJrsula was startled, even angry, at the sugges- 
tion. 

“Never!” she said energetically. “You must tell 
her please to put such a thought out of her head.” 

She felt now as if during the past days Mario had 
secretly been trying to convert her. The thought 
annoyed her intensely. She had fallen into the 
trap, had listened when he spoke, as he constantly 
did, of his religion, had displayed an interest in it 
because he was so tremendously in earnest. She was 
angry, too, because she knew that this same pos- 
sibility had not always been remote from her own 
thoughts. She had fought against it, and had never 
entered one of the Roman churches, even as a sight- 
seer. She had been afraid of their effect upon her. 

Mario was immediately contrite. 

“Have I said anything to displease you?” he 
asked. 

“Yes. You have made me feel as if you had all 
this time been trying to convert me. You don’t 
know how I have been brought up to regard Rome. 
When one has been brought up like that it would 
indeed be foolish to accept the first different point 
of view with which one may come in contact.” 

“Am I really the first person to speak to you of 
the Catholic religion as of something good and 
beautiful — and divine?” he asked, wonderingly. 

“You are the first Catholic to do so,” she replied, 
not unmindful of certain things which Humphrey 
Willmot had said during their long conversations 
on Pentarn cliffs. 

Like so many Italians, Mario was inclined to im- 
agine that the conflict between the Catholic and 
Protestant Churches in England was far more acute 
than it really is, and also that it occupied a far more 


URSULA FINCH 


153 


prominent position in the life of the nation. He 
knew nothing of the innumerable quiet, often re- 
mote, parishes with which England is strewn from 
end to end, where the doctrines embodied in the 
Thirty-Nine Articles have been presented for more 
than three centuries without anything much in the 
shape of controversy coming to disturb them. The 
religion in honor of which so many of those ancient 
churches and chapels were originally built is for- 
gotten by the people who attend them, and its con- 
tinued existence in other places is scarcely recalled. 
The altar-crosses, the holy-water stoups, and other 
signs of that past worship may still evoke a certain 
antiquarian interest. But the Protestant congrega- 
tions who have succeeded the devout Catholics of 
the past are not in conflict with Rome, because they 
are so often ignorant of her, and indifferent where 
not actually ignorant. Rome stands for something 
foreign, if, indeed, it is ever remembered at all. 
Mario, however, believed that the whole of the 
Church of England was represented by the High 
Church party, eternally in conflict with Rome. He 
was curiously ignorant of the Broad and Low 
Churchmen who form equally substantial parties 
within the establishment and are represented by 
bishops and clergy serving under the same flag and 
theoretically teaching precisely the same Protestant 
doctrines as their High Church brethren. He had 
come in contact with High Church people while on 
his travels, and a subsequent perusal of the Thirty- 
Nine Articles had bewildered him not a little, it 
was so difficult to reconcile what they were required 
to believe with what they, according to their own 
showing, taught. That those Articles were for the 
most part very violently and bitterly anti-Catholic, 
he could not fail to see, although he had been as- 
sured that they were not binding on the laity, and 


154 


URSULA FINCH 


more than one clergyman had wished to explain them 
to him “historically.” If no one believed them why 
were they retained, and why were the clergy bound 
to make a public avowal of belief in their contents? 
He questioned Ursula, and found that she did be- 
lieve them, had been in fact trained and brought up 
to believe them. They were what her father taught 
from the pulpit in Pentarn church. 

“It is wonderful then that you do not hate us 
more,” said Mario wistfully. He seemed to see 
her now as a soul submerged in darkness, and yet 
what a beautiful soul hers was! 

“I do not hate your religion. We have some 
points in common. We believe in the same Re- 
demption.” 

“Yes, that is true,” said Mario. 

Her face still wore a grave, almost stern look. 
She felt as if she had been unconsciously and unsus- 
pectingly playing into Mario’s hands. They were 
very clever and subtle, these Italians. He had led 
her on little by little, and she was glad that he did 
not know how constantly her thoughts dwelt upon 
the subject of the Catholic Church. There was the 
Dome to remind her of it daily. There were the 
Ave Maria bells, the De Profundis bells, calling 
the faithful to prayer at regular hours of the day. 
There were the shrines at the street corners with 
their pictures of the Madonna and Child to appeal 
to the passer-by. In Rome at least you could never 
get away from these things, from the suggestion 
they offered, from even a kind of clamorous, spirit- 
ual appeal, inseparable from them. 

She became aware that Mario was speaking. 

“Now I am going to tell you something in great 
confidence. I must have your promise first not to 
betray me.” 

“I think I would rather not hear any secrets.” 


URSULA FINCH 155 

In her nursery days secrets had been strictly for- 
bidden, and even to be suspected of harboring one 
might entail a sharp punishment. Ursula was still 
inclined to regard them therefore as guilty, prohib- 
ited things. 

“No?” he said in astonishment. He was Latin 
enough to adore the very hint of a mystery. “Still 
I think if you would consent you might one day find 
the knowledge very useful. It is about my two little 
cousins, Alda and Rosina.” 

Seeing he wished it so much she made the re- 
quired promise. 

“You may tell me. I promise that I won’t tell,” 
she said. She despised herself for giving in, for 
allowing herself to be influenced by him. 

“My uncle Guido refused to have his children 
baptized. I believe they were both christened in a 
Protestant church, the Freemasons don’t mind that! 
But one day when they were both quite little my 
grandmother and I took them to the Parroco and 
had them baptized, conditionally of course.” 

“Wasn’t that very underhand — very wrong?” she 
asked. 

“Underhand ? Wrong ?” 

“I mean, you did something that you knew their 
parents would have objected to.” 

“Are these innocent children to suffer because 
their father is a bad Catholic?” demanded Mario, 
angrily. “We are not fighting against poor Guido, 
he is really more weak than bad. But we wished to 
defeat the devil, whom he has allowed to control 
his affairs. We were determined that these poor 
babies should not forfeit their eternal inheritance.” 

Ursula had known many unchristened babies in 
Pentarn. They had perhaps been weakly, and had 
died before they could be brought to church to be 
christened. No one was horrified if they died in 


156 


URSULA FINCH 


that state. And although for a second Mario’s 
words made her feel uncomfortable, she could not 
yet believe that “it mattered very much.” She could 
never remember hearing her father say that it mat- 
tered at all. And surely he would know. A little 
ugly doubt crept, however, into her heart. Mario 
was obviously so convinced that these things really 
did matter, more than anything else in the world. 

“Their mother never knew?” she asked, with a 
vague feeling that Madame Garroni had been badly 
treated. 

“Certainly not; she would be very angry. Guido 
gave her leave to bring them up as Protestants, and 
she does take them to her church ‘sometimes when 
the weather is fine.” 

“How can you all live together?” said Ursula 
impulsively. 

Mario looked slightly surprised. 

“Why shouldn’t we? My grandmother likes to 
be there, she’s always hoping for an opportunity of 
getting hold of the children.' And she is quite de- 
pendent upon us. Guido has little beyond what he 
earns, so he could not give her an allowance. My 
aunt has an assured income which she dislikes spend- 
ing on anyone but herself, but she cannot please 
herself in the matter, as in Italy the husband has 
the power to administer his wife’s fortune. We all 
pay our share of the rent and the household ex- 
penses. Guido insisted that Arabella should defray 
the whole cost of the journey to England this year, 
but that was because he did not wish her to go. I 
am glad myself that she went.” His frank dark 
eyes rested upon her with a friendly expression. 
“Although you are not a Catholic I believe you will 
have a good influence over those two children. They 
are already different since you came, and yet you 
are always kind to them. You will train them care- 


URSULA FINCH 


157 


fully. Some of the English ways are admirable — 
you know the value of discipline, of self-control. It 
is not for the Latin — at least not in the same meas- 
ure.” He puckered his brow in a frown. “You 
can do a great deal if you will for these babies.” 

“Yes. What you have told me will make no dif- 
ference. I shall continue to do all I can to make 
them happy.” Her voice was steady. She was be- 
ginning to forgive Mario; he was so absolutely 
single-minded. His only desire was that Alda and 
Rosina should not be deprived of their heritage of 
faith; he wished to benefit them spiritually as well 
as morally, to equip them for the tremendous task 
of life, that required, as she knew, so much courage, 
so much self-sacrifice. He looked at things from a 
totally different angle from that of Humphrey Will- 
mot, and yet their conclusions were strangely alike. 
Only Mario was within the Fold, its gifts were his 
proud heritage, to guard and defend, since every 
Catholic is perforce a soldier in the cause of his 
Church. Whereas Humphrey stood, as it were, on 
Pi^ah, gazing from afar on the Promised Land. 

The Promised Land. As those words came into 
Ursula’s mind she had a quick instant thought that 
arose almost against her will as if it had been im- 
posed upon her from without, by some strong ex- 
terior force. “Shall I ever go there, I wonder? 
But, of course, I shall!” She colored violently as if 
she had been discovered in the indulgence of some 
guilty secret thought, and she turned her head ab- 
ruptly away. For of course it was absurd. She had 
never felt the slightest inclination to become a Cath- 
olic, or to learn anything further about the Catholic 
Church. Even here — in the heart of it, the home 
of it — it had made no appeal to her. The Dome at- 
tracted her in some way she could not understand; 
she preferred to believe that the attraction was a 


URSULA FINCH 


158 

sentimental one, because of Humphrey’s words to 
her. She raised her eyes and looked at it now, heav- 
ily violet against a sunset sky that to-night was rather 
stormy in its splendor. Yes, it was beautiful, domi- 
nating; in its power and strength it was symbolic 
of that rock for which the great basilica stood. The 
Rock — St. Peter. The thrilling words flashed back 
to her mind. ^^Thou art Peter, and upon this Rock I 
will build My ChurchP She tried to free herself 
from the strong influences that held her then. Ma- 
rio’s words had produced this change in her. What 
a fool to let herself be so easily moved She wished 
that she had not looked at the Dome just then. It 
seemed to her almost like a sentient thing, with a 
voice that called to her. 

It was so clear to her that Mario had believed she 
would ultimately help him in the matter of Alda 
and Rosina. He had made that wistful appeal, as 
if imploring her to be on his side, to fight with him 
for those two innocent and precious souls. And 
how could she help, placed as she was in a position 
so dependent it was scarcely better than that of an 
under-servant? She could do nothing literally with- 
out their mother’s knowledge. And then she 
oughtn’t to want to help. Why couldn’t they be 
brought up as Protestants as she herself had been? 
Why should one Church vaunt herself over all the 
rest as the true Church of Christ? What right had 
it to do so? *^And on this Rock I will build My 
Church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail 
against itP Was St. Peter alarmed at the awful re- 
sponsibility thrust upon him, as a recompense per- 
haps for his magnificent, simple avowal of faith? 
Did he shrink from the fiery task imposed upon 
him? Her thoughts swerved aside to contemplate 
this new issue. 

“I am glad that you are not altogether against 


URSULA FINCH 


159 


me,’* said Mario. “You make me even feel that 
some day we may see more eye to eye in this matter 
than we do now. Rome has a great deal to teach 
you. Miss Finch. Don’t close your ears and eyes 
against her.” He smiled in his winning, boyish way. 

Alda and Rosina came back to them from their 
games under the ilex-trees. He kissed them both 
gravely. 

“Now we must all go home.” 

Over Monte Mario the sun had set splendidly, 
the storm clouds had passed, and a liquid golden 
light flooded all the sky, and was reflected here and 
there upon the pale clustered houses, the lifted 
towers. The Dome stood up in dark and shadowy 
Immensity. 

Ursula walked down the path with the children 
one on each side of her. Mario followed, scarcely 
speaking. From a hundred belfries the bells were 
ringing the Ave Maria. Something of the solem- 
nity of the hour had touched the little group. To 
Ursula it seemed as if one vast prayer were being 
borne up to the throne of God to the accompani- 
ment of those clashing bells. 


CHAPTER XVI 


M adame Garroni watched Ursula very nar- 
rowly during those first weeks, as if suspect- 
ing her of a desir« to give less than was their due in 
return for that niagnificent emolument, her salary. 
She heaped continually more tasks upon her, tasks 
of cooking, of needlework, and housework, as well 
as the one iFor which she had originally engaged her. 
Ursula worked like a little slave. She never had 
an idle moment. “Never let me catch you with 
your hands idle,” Madame Garroni had told her; 
“there is always sewing to be done.” The children’s 
presence with her at night, their occasional fits of 
crying and fretful wakefulness, which compelled 
her to get up and soothe them until they fell asleep 
again, made Ursula’s present life much harder even 
than the one she had left. And the summer 
climate of Rome — often trying to those reared in 
more bracing air — ^^told upon her health and energy. 
She began to feel languid and nervous. She worked 
hard, and received insufficient food and no leisure 
at all. Madame Garroni snubbed and scolded her. 
She was always in the wrong. Her old training had 
taught her to be silent under reproof, and she of- 
fered no excuses when she was found fault with. 
She learned, though this was harder, to repress her 
tears. Mario was the only person who treated her 
like a human being, but he was not often there, and 
lately he had been too busy to come and join her on 
the Pincio or in the Borghese Gardens. Ursula was 
even thankful for this; she was sure that had the 
fact of his doing so been discovered Madame Gar- 
roni would have been extremely displeased. His 
unfailing kindness when they did meet touched her 
i6o 


URSULA FINCH 


i6i 


heart. She knew that he was kind to her for a pur- 
pose, he had almost made that clear to her, but nev- 
ertheless she was grateful to him. She had also 
won the affections of little Alda and Rosina, espe- 
cially of the former, who turned to her now rather 
than to her capricious uncertain-tempered mother. 
Ursula was always gentle and kind to them. She 
loved them both, and they filled an empty place in 
her heart. 

June had nearly come to an end. Ursula already 
felt the heat a good deal, though Madame Garroni 
laughingly assured her that there was worse to fol- 
low. It was St. Peter’s day, and at luncheon Mario 
observed suddenly: 

“I have borrowed a car this afternoon. If you 
have no objection I will take Miss Finch and the 
children out for an hour or two. We can look in 
at St. Peter’s — it will be en fete to-day. You must 
not miss our great Roman festaf* he added, turning 
to Ursula. 

Ursula felt certain that Madame Garroni would 
refuse. She would be annoyed perhaps because 
she had not been included in the invitation. 

“I suppose I must let them go, Mario,” she said, 
“but if there is a great crowd in St. Peter’s I do beg 
you not to take the children in, I am so afraid of 
their catching things.” 

Mario laughed. He knew there would be a 
crowd, and equally he knew that, crowd or no crowd, 
he intended to take the children into the basilica. 
But his primary object in going was to take Ursula. 
She had never been there, indeed she had never any 
leisure for sight-seeing, and he had a great wish to 
show it to her to-day. The bronze statue would, 
he knew, be arrayed in its marvelous cinque-cento 
vestments, the splendid pastoral ring would adorn 
those sculptured hands. There would be a queue 


i 62 


URSULA FINCH 


of people of all nations and ranks and professions, 
pressing forward to kiss the foot that was slightly 
extended to receive the homage of those fresh thou- 
sands upon its worn surface. Over the great rniddle 
door of the basilica there would hang the Fisher- 
man’s net, fashioned of evergreens and shaped like 
a basket, suspended above the heads of all those 
who passed in. He wanted to see what impression 
all this would make upon Ursula. Some people felt 
a little overwhelmed on first entering upon those 
vast pale marble spaces, with, far off, the glimmer of 
a hundred orange lamps shining like flowers around 
the Confession. It was all so immense, built indeed 
to welcome countless pilgrims from every part of 
the world. He wanted her to feel the extraordinary 
unity of the Catholic Church, with its appeal that 
touched alike the learned and the simple, the old 
and the young, the rich and the poor. 

He was glad that his aunt had made so little de- 
mur. 

“You may take my children as sight-seers,” said 
Guido, in rather a savage tone, “but I am not going 
to let them kiss St. Peter’s foot or any rubbish of 
that sort.” 

“Miss Finch will see to that; she has no sym- 
pathy, I am sure, for the custom of worshipping 
graven images which prevails here,” said Madame 
Garroni acidly. 

She glanced sharply at Ursula, whose face was 
very pale and immobile. 

“I wish you would not be so absurd. Uncle 
Guido,” said Mario, with a touch of irritability. 
“Why should your children not do what all the little 
Roman children do? They will be there in hun- 
dreds to-day with their parents.” 

“They are my children,” said Garroni violently. 
“I have a right to say what they shall do and what 


URSULA FINCH 


163 

they shall not do. I will allow no one to interfere, 
least of all a priest-ridden person like yourself I” 
He banged his fist down on the table. 

Mario went on eating. But the storm he had 
raised was not destined to be easily pacified. 

“If I find that you are trying to teach my children 
religion I shall ask you to go away. I will not have 
it — I will not!” His eyes almost started out of his 
head with rage. 

Ursula understood very little of what was being 
said, but she saw that Garroni had lost all control of 
his temper, and that his anger was directed against 
Mario. The heated altercation continued, and pres- 
ently old Signora Garroni joined in and spoke to her 
son in a loud reproachful voice. Alda who was al- 
ways nervous began first to whimper and then to cry. 
Her father spoke sharply to her, and Madame Gar- 
roni leaned forward and gave her a shake, saying: 
“If you make that noise Miss Finch will take you 
away and put you to bed.” 

Mario’s replies sounded cool and temperate, but 
there was sarcasm and even contempt in his voice 
which only served to increase his uncle’s anger. 
Finally Garroni sprang up from his seat and made 
a rush at his nephew. Ursula was filled with con- 
sternation. She thought the two men were going 
to fight. She put her arm protectingly round little 
Alda, who was watching the proceedings with ter- 
rified eyes. 

Mario rose, too, his dark eyes flashing. He 
turned to Ursula, murmured an apology, and went 
out of the room. 

“He is an insolent, ill-bred young fool,” said Gar- 
roni. “I will not have him interfering here. It is 
all your doing, I know,” he added, turning furiously 
to his mother. “I know you are encouraging him 
all the time. You have brought him up to be as 
foolish as yourself.” 


164 


URSULA FINCH 


The old woman said nothing. She fixed her eyes 
upon Ursula with a long, steady gaze that made the 
girl feel guilty and uncomfortable. She thought to 
herself: “Has Mario told her anything? If Ma- 
dame Garroni suspects anything she will send me 
away.” Ursula began to feel that her position was 
becoming perilous. For, of course, if they discov- 
ered that Mario had been talking to her, had been 
trying to convert her, they would send her away. 
She was here because she was a Protestant, and 
could be relied upon not to teach the children any- 
thing of the Catholic religion. Yet Garroni’s atti- 
tude alarmed her. It was the attitude of a man who 
fanatically hated religion, and whose life was spent 
in combating its influence. There was something 
evil about his fanaticism, as of one who was fighting 
against God. It was not the narrow and bigoted 
intolerance to which she had been accustomed at 
Pentarn, it was a much larger, much fiercer thing. 
She could not place herself on his side. She saw 
suddenly that she would prefer to lend her support 
to Mario rather than to his uncle. And it was this 
knowledge that taught her how perilous her position 
had become. They would send her away, turn her 
out into the street, and she would have no place, no 
friends to go to; she would be alone and penniless 
in Rome. 

“You can take the children away. Miss Finch,” 
said Madame Garroni, who felt slightly ashamed 
that Ursula should have witnessed one of her hus- 
band’s violent outbursts of temper. Mario ought 
to have known better than to mention the subject of 
religion to him. It always produced a scene of the 
kind. 

Punctually at the time appointed, Mario appeared 
in the car he had borrowed for the afternoon. First 
he drove up to the Janiculum so that Ursula might 
see that beautiful panoramic view of Rome, so fa- 


URSULA FINCH 


165 


miliar to all tourists. Then they descended the hill 
and approached St. Peter’s along the Borgo San 
Spirito. They came suddenly into the great piazza, 
which was thronged with an immense concourse of 
people, all wending their way across it toward the 
steps that led up to the great basilica. No feast is 
so dear to the hearts of the Roman people as this 
one; it seems peculiarly their own, and few citizens 
omit a visit to the great church on St. Peter’s day. 
Ursula felt as if the building must be inadequate to 
contain such a great multitude of pilgrims, all bent 
on doing homage to the Prince of the apostles. The 
wide pale expanse with Bernini’s long graceful col- 
onnades, holding out as it were their arms to enclose 
the thronging crowds, was a beautiful sight to-day 
when all Rome seemed to be participating in the 
wonderful festa. The splendid fountains of Ma- 
derna flung up dazzling sheets of spray that shone 
gold and silver in the burning sunlight. The sky 
made a dark blue canopy overhead, unbroken by any 
cloud. 

Mario pointed out the Fisherman’s net to Ursula 
as they passed into the portico. They had to wait 
a little time until the crowds in front of them had 
pushed their way through the inner doors. Mario 
lifted little Rosina in his arms, fearing that she might 
be crushed. Ursula held Alda tightly by the hand. 
At last they found themselves within the vast pale 
spaces of the basilica, and a sudden rush of cool air 
touched their faces. How immense it was ! So im- 
mense that the enormous crowds seemed almost lost 
in it. It was only when they approached the statue, 
arrayed in its marvelous cinque-cento vestments that 
they found it difficult to proceed. Whole families 
were passing the ancient bronze figure, kissing the 
worn foot, and lifting up their children to do the 
same. Two carabinieri stood one on each side of 


i66 


URSULA FINCH 


the statue, keeping a vigilant watch upon the jewels 
with which it was adorned. 

Mario set little Rosina down by the side of Ursula 
and took his place in the queue. When his turn 
came Ursula could see that he first touched the foot 
with his lips and then bending his head touched it 
also with his forehead. Presently he came back and 
joined her. 

“You see I have respected my uncle’s wishes,” he 
said to her; “but it is only because I know that he 
will question the children when they get home, and 
perhaps he might punish them for disobedience. 
Will you come over here. Miss Finch? It is almost 
time for Vespers to begin, and I want you to see the 
Cardinal come in.” 

They stood side by side for a few minutes, and 
then the procession emerged from the sacristy. The 
Cardinal Arch-priest, arrayed in gala scarlet, was a 
majestic and princely figure as he walked slowly 
toward his throne, with an immobile face and down- 
cast eyes. He was accompanied by numerous eccle- 
siastics. 

Ursula had never seen a function of the kind be- 
fore, and against her will it impressed her. 

Vespers was sung, and all through the chanting of 
the psalms the thousands of feet treading the marble 
floor made a continuous accompaniment of sound, 
crisp, surging, like the ebb and flow of waves upon 
the shingle. 

“Now you will hear *0 Roma Felix* sung,” whis- 
pered Mario. “It is the most wonderful thing of all. 
Pe le come here just to hear it.” 



le choir sang exquisitely the ancient, beautiful 


melody : 


O Roma felix, quae duorum Principum 


Es consecrata glorioso sanguine: 
Horum cruore purpurata ceteras 
Excellis orbis una pulchritudines. 


URSULA FINCH 


167 

Once she looked up sharply at Mario and saw 
that his eyes were bright with tears. Not a few of 
those around her exhibited the same emotion. And 
although she did not understand it perfectly she felt 
strangely touched. The words echoed in her ears, 
reiterated by the exquisite singing of the choir: 

Roma felix. ... O Roma felix — 

Mario made a sign to her to follow him. He led 
the way back and stopped before the Confession of 
St. Peter. The glow of innumerable lamps made a 
patch of flame-covered light, subdued, yet glowing 
steadily. Mario knelt down there and, hiding his 
face, prayed. Ursula felt certain that he was pray^ 
ing for the children, perhaps even for herself. 
Moved by a sudden impulse she knelt down by his 
side. The solemnity of the hour possessed her. 
Roma felix, ... O Roma felix — She looked up, 
and high above her head she read those tremendous 
words written in enormous letters around the Dome: 
Tu es Petrus, et super hanc Petr am aedificabo Eccle- 
Siam Meam, There was no mistaking their vital 
and eternal import. They came down to her then 
across the ages like a clarion sound. She looked 
around her. Yes, almost every one present there 
to-day believed in the divine mission of the Roman 
Catholic Church. It was past the tourist season, 
and few foreigners cared to remain so late in Rome. 
Most of those present were Italians with a sprinkling 
of devout pilgrims from other nations. They 
had come to pray beside the Confession, to kiss the 
worn foot, but above all to show their profound and 
living faith in those eternal truths which the Church, 
under the Vicar of Christ, guards and preserves still 
across nearly two thousand years. What need had 
Rome to show her credentials? She had only to 
point to those words: Thou art Peter, and upon 
this Rock I will build My Church, And was not 


i68 


URSULA FINCH 


this the Rock, standing on the very site where the 
Prince of the apostles went forth to his martyrdom, 
drenching the soil with his blood ? 

Her face was very white as she followed Mario 
out of the basilica, and as she went a thousand voices 
seemed to pursue her. “Thou art Peter, and upon 
this Rock I will build My Church.” O Roma felix. 
O Roma felix. 

“I am afraid you have been standing too long,” 
said Mario, with sudden compunction. 

“Oh, no,” said Ursula, “I did not find it too long.” 

Her eyes looked past him with a very strange 
expression. 

“What have I done? Have I offended her?” 
thought Mario. “She looks so strange.” 

On the way home she sat at the back of the car 
with little Alda, and she did not exchange a single 
word with Mario. At the door he sprang out first 
and gave her his hand, and then lifted Alda out. He 
was still puzzled at Ursula’s silence. Its true mean- 
ing had not dawned upon him. 

“I want to thank you,” she said suddenly; “you 
have given me a great pleasure. I do not know 
quite how to thank you enough.” 

She hurried away, the children following her. 
Mario drove off, more puzzled than ever. 


CHAPTER XVII 


A s the summer wore on the heat in Rome became 
very great. All day long the wooden shutters 
were fastened across the windows, and the rooms 
were filled with an airless darkness that was scarcely 
less hot than the fiery conditions that prevailed with- 
out. To the sojourners from northern lands there 
is something very trying in this custom to which the 
Romans have adhered through generations. Air, 
even hot air, seems preferable to no air at all. 
Ursula felt that she should never grow used to this 
suffocating gloom which continued all day until the 
evening, when the windows were once more opened 
to admit the delicious breeze that blew in from the 
sea, refreshing the parched city. But after many 
seasons spent there the foreigner yields himself to 
custom, and finds it to be the only tolerable one 
when the sun enters Leone, and, as the Arabs say, 
becomes indeed a lion in his strength and power. 

Other little changes crept in, varying the lives of 
the Gari^oni family. The hour of siesta was rigor- 
ously observed. Ursula was permitted to lie down 
and rest between the hours of half-past one and 
three. The children slept on till four o’clock, when 
they had tea so as to be ready for the evening walk 
at five o’clock. They were often feverish and fret- 
ful; it was difficult to amuse them. Ursula herself 
grew pale and thin. She had grown up in the bleak 
and bracing air of North Cornwall, and she suffered 
very much during those hours of fierce, suffocating 
heat. As a rule the nights were fairly cool, espe- 
cially after one o’clock in the morning. She often 
lay awake until that early coolness set in, trying to 
school herself into immobility for fear of awakening 
the children with her restlessness. She was glad to 
169 


170 


URSULA FINCH 


get up at six o’clock for then the air was delicious, 
so rarefied and invigorating that it possessed almost 
a mountain quality. It refreshed her, and gave her 
courage to face the weary burning day that lay in 
front of her. She would have been happy in such a 
climate if she could have been quite idle. But Ma- 
dame Garroni, growing more stout and indolent than 
ever during the summer months, did not even at- 
tempt to spare her. 

“What a fuss you make about a little work I” she 
used to say, flinging out two fat white hands with 
a gesture of contempt. “Now, when I was your age 
I was never happy unless I had plenty to do.” 

Ursula who had made no fuss at all went back 
into her shell of silence. She was in despair. Would 
this life of hers continue thus forever? Would 
there never, never be release ? 

Mario had gone away; he wrote from cool places 
in the mountains of the north. Meantime it grew 
hotter in Rome. By local tradition St. Laurence’s 
day — the tenth of August — is supposed to be the 
hottest of the year, when, the Romans say, you may 
even find red-hot cinders from the Saint’s gridiron 
in the streets. The rain will come between the two 
Madonnas, say the people confidently; that is, be- 
tween her Assumption, on the fifteenth of August, 
and her Nativity on the eighth of September. Seldom 
indeed, does the much-desired rain fail to fall be- 
tween those two dates, as if it were part of the 
bounty of the beloved Mother of God, who is so 
honored in the churches of Rome. 

Ursula suffered blindly that summer. Anna took 
her departure early in August, and Madame Garroni 
made no attempt to replace her. It would hardly 
be worth while to do so, she explained, since in all 
probability they would have to take the children to 
the seaside very soon, and, in the meantime, Ursula 


URSULA FINCH 


171 

could very well spare the time to help in the kitchen. 
Beneath this fresh task she very nearly broke down. 
Fortunately in the midst of those days of fiery heat, 
brazen skies, and glaring pavements that scorched 
the eyes and blistered the feet, little Alda had a 
slight attack of fever. Garroni becoming alarmed 
formed plans for removing his household to the sea 
without delay. Hitherto, he had protested against 
the idea, saying that he could not possibly afford 
the expense. But Mrs. Burton had already been 
appealed to, and had replied with a handsome check. 

^‘But, of course, I shan’t take that girl,” Madame 
Garroni informed her husband; “your mother will 
help me to look after the children.” 

“Will she stay here alone?” inquired Garroni. 

“She will do whatever she is told. You will come 
with us of course, and she can sleep here and look 
after the flat, and get her meals at a latteriaJ* 

When everything had been satisfactorily arranged 
these plans were disclosed to Ursula. She accepted 
the news almost thankfully. She was to be alone — 
altogether alone — for the first time in her life. She 
would have time to sleep. For several weeks she 
would enjoy such freedom as she had never dreamed 
of. The conditions in no way appalled her, although 
Madame Garroni was not inclined to be generous. 

“I shall give you a lira a day for your board,” 
she told her. “Anything beyond that you must find 
out of your own pocket.” 

She omitted, or perhaps forgot, to make any ad- 
vance payment of this magnificent addition to Ur- 
sula’s salary before she departed with her family to 
Lerici. Alda shed a few tears when she discovered 
that Ursula was to be left behind, but Rosina was 
far too much excited at the thought of the journey 
to care for such a trifle as that. 

For the first few days after they had gone Ursula 


172 


URSULA FINCH 


enjoyed her liberty as she had never enjoyed any- 
thing in her life before. She could lie in bed as late 
as she liked, only going into the kitchen at an early 
hour to heat some coffee and prepare her breakfast. 
She went, as Madame Garroni had suggested, to a 
latteria for her other meals. But cheap as they 
were, and modest as were the repasts she chose, she 
soon found that a lira a day was utterly insufficient 
to cover their cost. Ursula had loyally sent home 
each month the greater part of her salary, much 
more indeed than she could prudently spare, and she 
had only set aside a few lire for her own personal 
expenses to be used in any untoward emergency. She 
was loath to touch that poor little nest egg, never- 
theless after the first week it became absolutely nec- 
essary to do so. Her salary was now due, but Ma- 
dame Garroni showed no signs of remembering to 
send it. Ursula did not dare to remind her of .it. 
But this fact left her now almost penniless, except 
for that poor little sum she had put by. The conse- 
quence was that she soon began to grow weak from 
insufficient and improper nourishment. Her head 
felt very light and her limbs very heavy. One eve- 
ning she found herself altogether too weak to climb 
down all those weary stairs, and seek the latteria, 
which was not far away. She drank some coffee, 
and ate a little piece of dry bread, which seemed to 
choke her. She had a great longing for some cooling 
drink with ice in it. 

Feeling exhausted she went to lie down on her 
bed. Perhaps a little sleep would refresh her. Out- 
side a scorching sirocco was blowing through the 
city, raising perfect whirlwinds of dust that blew in 
through the crevices of the shutters. 

Ursula lay on her back staring up at the ceiling. 
The thought of being ill here quite alone preyed a 
little on her mind, it made her feel actually afraid. 


URSULA FINCH 


173 


Three more weeks at least must elapse before the 
Garroni family returned. For a week she had 
spoken to no one, except to the porter’s ancient wife, 
who lived in the subterranean regions of the house. 
A dreadful sense of desolation came over her. She 
began to cry from sheer weakness. Gradually her 
sobbing mastered her. She wept violently, until 
her head ached and her eyes burned as if their sock- 
ets were full of fire. 

This nervous breakdown would have evoked no 
surprise in any doctor’s mind. The only wonder was 
that Ursula, an untried girl, could so long have en- 
dured the sharp strain to which she had been sub- 
jected. Indeed, the beginnings of the attack might 
usefully have been traced back to the perpetual over- 
work, the daily physical fatigue of her life at Pen- 
tarn. Without any intervening period of repose she 
had been thrust into this new life, which, from every 
point of view, she found exceedingly trying. She 
had, indeed, worked as she had never worked before, 
in a climate that even idle people found sufficiently 
trying in summer; her nights had been broken by 
the fretful wakefulness of Alda, and latterly she had 
been forced to do all the cooking and washing up 
for a household of six persons. Now the sudden 
solitude, the pecuniary anxiety and lack of proper 
food had filled to the brim her cup of suffering and 
had precipitated the crisis. 

When morning came she was still too weak to 
go further than the front door, whence she was able 
to call the porter’s wife, a kindly old soul, who prom- 
ised to bring her milk and bread. Ursula drank 
some milk, but she could eat nothing. She crept 
thankfully back to bed. Her mouth and throat 
were parched with fever, and her eyes stared out of 
her face with a dreadful brilliance. 

For some days Ursula was very ill indeed. She 


174 


URSULA FINCH 


felt mortally ill, and wondered if she were going 
to die, quite alone like this, without anyone near her. 
It had all been a disaster, her leaving Pentarn, her 
coming among these strangers, who were not even 
kind to her. When it was over she never knew how 
she had emerged from that fierce combat which had 
possessed, as she was well aware, mental and spirit- 
ual, as well as physical, elements. Youth conquered, 
and then she had never lived softly; all her past 
training had taught her patience and self-discipline. 
In the whole twenty-two and a half years of her life 
she could hardly have looked back upon a single 
hour of indolence, of physical ease. Sleep, hardly 
won and abundantly merited, had always been 
haunted by dreams of the formidable array of to- 
morrow’s tasks. Daphne — it was odd how Daphne 
flitted before her vision during those nights of nerv- 
ous fever in Rome. A brilliant triumphant Daphne, 
wearing cool, delicious raiment. A Daphne, who 
perhaps was even now engaged to Humphrey Will- 
mot. 

That thought brought no pain now across her 
numbed senses. She was too desolate to care. Hum- 
phrey was something beautiful and tender who had 
vanished out of her life forever. She was alone, 
abpdoned — what had she to do with the Humphrey 
Willmots of this world? She was a slave, called by 
courtesy a nursery-governess. And they had left her 
here alone without money, to starve, perhaps to die. 
She had five lire left. Even if she had been well 
enough to write and tell Madame Garroni of her 
present predicament she doubted if she would have 
sent her any money. 

One night between sleeping and waking she had 
one of those curious experiences which seem to have 
no explanation in the rational world. She was walk- 
ing, so she thought, in one of the narrow streets of 


URSULA FINCH 


I7S 

Rome beyond the Fountain of Trevi, when she sud- 
denly stopped before a little shrine of Our Lady 
set into the wall of a corner house. It was a picture 
of the Madonna and Child, and was glazed so that 
it was not very distinct. An iron grille guarded it, 
and on the ledge in front of it there was a little bunch 
of fading flowers. It was considerably above the 
level of the pavement, and she wondered how the 
flowers had come there. Perhaps some one had 
lifted a child up to put them on the little ledge. But 
the Madonna was not looking at the flowers. Her 
wise, pitying, sorrowful eyes were fixed upon Ursula. 
She seemed to be beckoning to her, to be calling to 
her, with those calm, courageous, tender eyes. It 
was as if she were saying, though Ursula heard no 
words: “You can never know anything that I have 
not known. I have suffered and lost more than any 
woman who ever lived. I, too, have been left alone 
and desolate. But if you come to me I will teach 
you what these things mean. I will show you, too, 
that suffering is the gift of God, and not the least of 
all His gifts to man. He has set His divine seal 
upon it, the precious blood of Our Lord Jesus 
Christ.” 

Ursula started violently, and awoke to full con- 
sciousness. What words were these to pierce across 
her fever-stricken senses? She looked wildly round 
the room. The cold silver dawn of the south was 
rapidly delineating the ugly furniture, the two empty 
white cribs that belonged to Alda and Rosina. She 
had left the window and the wooden shutters wide 
open before going to bed last night. The room was 
in disorder. There were things lying on the chairs 
and on the two little beds. Her shoes were scat- 
tered on the floor. She had not tried to put any- 
thing away, and for several days the room had not 
been touched. She was her own servant, and she 


URSULA FINCH 


176 

had felt too ill to cope with it all. Now that she 
was awake she was aware that despite her physical 
malaise and the light-headedness that seemed to have 
become an almost chronic symptom with her, she 
felt extraordinarily refreshed and sustained. The 
vision — if vision it were — had consoled her. She 
remembered the shrine quite well, she had often 
passed it in her walks. She had even stopped before 
it once to admire the old painting, to notice the calm, 
heroic patient face of the Madonna looking down 
upon the quiet narrow little Roman street. The 
impression thus made upon her brain must have 
been a far deeper one than she had imagined, to pro- 
duce such a peculiarly vivid dream. What were 
those words? ^7 will show you, too, that suffering 
is the gift of God, and not the least of all His gifts 
to manl^ Ursula, utterly unversed in Catholic the- 
ology, had never either heard or read such words 
as these. But they seemed to give a new meaning to 
life, illuminating it like a powerful searchlight. 
They sounded like a clarion cry, summoning her to 
emerge from the black, brooding, perilous darkness 
of despair. 

“Yes, I am better to-day,” she told the porter’s 
wife, as she took the bottle of milk and the loaf of 
bread from her hands. “I shall perhaps be able to 
go out later.” She spoke in halting Italian. 

The old woman shook her head. “But the sig- 
norina ought not to go out. She is molto ammalata 
— very ill indeed.” 

Ursula smiled. “I am better. I shall soon be 
quite well.” 

She shut the door and tottered back to her room. 
Even this little effort had fatigued her and made 
her pulses beat uncomfortably. And she used to be 
so strong ! At Pentarn she had never been actually 
ill. She had never for a single day failed to accom- 


URSULA FINCH 


177 


plish hef tasks, to fulfill her tale of bricks. She had 
never been caught up into the arbitrary repose of ill- 
ness. Ursula, unused to the common symptoms of 
fever, had perhaps imagined herself to be more 
gravely ill than she really was. Now she longed to 
emerge from what seemed to her an almost criminal 
indolence, and yet she could hardly walk across the 
room without an exhaustion that produced the sensa- 
tions of approaching unconsciousness. She went 
back to bed, too weak to struggle. For five days 
longer she remained there, untended except for the 
kindly ministrations of the porter’s wife. 

The scorching day dedicated to St. Laurence was 
past. His relics — the piece of chain, the fragment 
of gridiron — had been exposed for the veneration of 
the faithful in the church of St. Lorenzo, in Lucina, 
that has been for ever made famous to English read- 
ers because it was the scene of Pompilia’s wedding in 
the Ring and the Book. The feast of the Assump- 
tion was over; spent were the bonfires lit upon the 
Umbrian hills by the pious peasants in honor of Our 
Lady. A deadly sirocco held the city and the Roman 
Campagna in its grip, withering and scorching the 
flowers and trees. The thirsty, parched world lay 
panting and exhausted, waiting for the rain. When 
It came at last it was no gentle shower, but it poured 
from black skies in sheets of hail. The loud boom- 
ing of the thunder rent the air like fierce artillery. 
Lightning split the clouds with fiery forked tongues. 
It was a storm to strike terror even to the hearts of 
a people inured to storms and earthquakes and the 
violence of nature. 

Ursula lay in bed trembling at every fresh crash. 
She had closed the wooden shutters, but already 
the air that blew through their chinks was fragrant 
with the odor of rain falling upon the earth — the 
scent seemed to her to arise like incense in grati- 


URSULA FINCH 


178 

tude for the welcome gift. When the storm had 
ceased and rain was falling with a straight, heavy 
steadiness, she rose, and, going to the window, un- 
fastened the shutters and looked out. Little rivers, 
brown and discolored, raced down the deserted 
streets. From every roof showers of drops fell 
upon the pavement. Not a solitary human figure 
was visible. Every one had sought refuge from the 
storm. 

Above the house the black clouds had parted a 
little, showing distant pools of clear blue that looked 
very bright and pure. 

The cooler weather was not only temporary; it 
continued for some days. The storm was renewed, 
only with lesser violence, each succeeding afternoon. 
One evening when the sky had cleared and the 
streets were still wet with rain, Ursula summoned 
all her courage, dressed herself, and went out. The 
fresh damp air was delicious; it restored and invig- 
orated her. She still felt giddy and rather light- 
headed, and when she began to walk her legs felt 
unsolid, as if they had been made of cotton-wool. 
Nevertheless, she was aware to-day, for the first 
time, of a distinct renewal of strength within her. 

At the end of the street Ursula crossed a piazza 
and walked slowly in a northernly direction. Pres- 
ently she came to a church, one of the many dedi- 
cated to Our Lady. It was a small round church, 
not much frequented, belonging to a religious order. 
When the early Masses were over it was generally 
closed all day until an hour or so before sunset. 
Ursula was feeling rather exhausted by the time she 
came to it, and, seeing the door open, it suddenly oc- 
curred to her that she would go in and rest. She 
climbed the steps, pushed aside the heavy leathern 
curtain that hung before the door, and entered the 
building. It was rather dark, but in the thick in- 


URSULA FINCH 179 

cense-laden gloom the lamps shone with a piercing: 
brightness. ^ s 

On the right there was an altar dedicated to Our 
Lady of the Rosary. Above it hung a copy of Sas- 
soferrato’s famous picture in Santa Sabina. The 
Madonna is portrayed with the Divine Infant in her 
arms, and she is handing the rosary to St. Dominic. 
Ursula saw that a woman — a shabby figure dressed 
in black — was kneeling before it. She went for- 
ward and, moved by some impulse she was never 
able to explain, she knelt down by the woman’s side. 

She did not pray, although her exterior attitude 
was one of devotion. She hid her face in her hands. 
An indescribable peace came over her. She did not 
try to resist the impression now made upon her by 
the atmosphere of the little church. Even the 
rather tawdry decorations, the gilt flowers, the arti- 
ficial pink roses, scarcely disturbed her. She was 
thinking of that curiously vivid dream or vision, 
that had come to her that night when she had been 
plunged in the darkest depths of despondency. She 
remembered very clearly those words of hope. 
Without them she thought she must have died, so 
tragic and hopeless had life become to her. 

A light noise aroused her. A priest in a Domini- 
can habit emerged from the sacristy. He was an 
elderly man with a thin dark face and piercing black 
eyes. As he passed before the high altar he genu- 
flected, then he knelt down for a moment’s prayer, 
and went into one of the confessionals. Almost im- 
mediately the woman rose too, and knelt down on 
the step at the side of the confessional, lifting her 
face to the grating. 

It was certainly the first time that Ursula Finch 
had ever seen a penitent enter a confessional. It 
gave her a little shock, as of something novel and 
strange, and perhaps to English prejudice a little 


i8o 


URSULA FINCH 


sinister. It outraged something within her that be- 
longed very intimately to Pentarn, and was the re- 
sult of her upbringing and education. Her father’s 
views on confession had been very clear indeed. 
He was accustomed to pronounce them aloud when 
any discussion on the subject arose in the High 
Church Gazette or other organ of the ritualistic 
party. He had no patience at all with those of his 
High Church brethren who went so far as to in- 
culcate Romish doctrines and “errors.” Auricular 
confession was to him anathema, and he was fond 
of stigmatizing it as unwholesome. What would he 
say if he could see Ursula now ? She felt guilty and 
frightened, but strongly and passionately inter- 
ested. Reminiscences of Villette and of the actual 
incident upon which the episode therein was based, 
as related by Charlotte Bronte in a letter to her 
sister Emily, came back to Ursula’s mind. She her- 
self was alone and ill and suffering, in a foreign city, 
just as Charlotte Bronte had been in Brussels. And 
Charlotte had sought relief from her intolerable 
solitude and misery in the confessional. She had, 
according to her own showing in that poignant let- 
ter, spoken to no one for many days. She must 
have known precisely this feeling of desolate, hope- 
less abandonment which had companioned Ursula 
for so long. But with Charlotte the episode had 
come to an abrupt ending. She had never followed 
it up, never sought out the priest for subsequent in- 
struction. Some of her finest rhetoric had been em- 
ployed indeed to attack the Catholic Church. More 
than one finely written passage of the kind recurred 
to Ursula’s mind then. Yet, though Charlotte 
Bronte had made her hero a devout, and in some 
ways, a bigoted. Catholic, Haworth and all that it 
stood for had ultimately triumphed. She had put 
out a timid hand and then had drawn back in alarm. 


URSULA FINCH 


i8i 

She had even used her great gift to attack the 
Church that had given her comfort and consolation 
in a dark hour. 

At that moment the woman’s whispering ceased, 
and the deeper voice of the priest was faintly heard 
in the silence of the church. He was uttering, al- 
though Ursula did not know it, the words of abso- 
lution that dismiss the penitent, shriven, at peace, 
reconciled once more to Almighty God. The woman 
emerged and moved away to a chair nearer the high 
altar. She knelt down, immersed in prayer. Be- 
fore she perfectly realized all that her action in- 
volved Ursula had risen, too, and had taken her 
place in the dark shadows of the confessional. Her 
heart was beating wildly; she could hardly speak. 

The priest murmured some Latin words, then he 
said in Italian: 

“How long is it since your last confession?” 

“Can you speak English?” she said desperately. 
“I am English.” 

Through the pierced brass grating she could not 
distinguish the priest’s face, but she felt rather 
than saw that it was turned toward her attentively. 

“Yes, my child,” he answered in English. 

She had no need of courage then. Something 
stronger than herself seemed to take possession of 
her. She explained her position, that she was a 
Protestant, that she had jusc been very ill, that she 
was alone in Rome and suffering, and in need of a 
kindly word to prevent her from sinking once more 
into that abyss of despair. 

“Since you are a Protestant,” he said at last, when 
she paused, “you cannot, alas, receive absolution. 
But if you wish me to advise you I can do so. You 
seem to be in need of a doctor more than a priest,” 
he added. His voice was low and kindly, was in- 
deed as music in her ears. 


1 82 URSULA FINCH 

“Oh, must I be shut out?” There was agony in 
her cry. 

“My child, the door is always open. If you really 
wish to be a Catholic, to receive the sacraments 
which the Catholic Church alone can give you, I can, 
of course, arrange for you to be instructed. Per- 
haps you will come with me now for a few minutes 
into the sacristy.” 

Ursula followed him, almost as if she were in 
some strange dream. But even so, she knew that 
all Pentarn was fighting for her now. All that she 
knew, that she had ever been taught by her father, 
both in church and at home. In a sense, too, she 
was perfectly aware that this mood of hers, with its 
passionate craving for the consolations of the Cath- 
olic Church, was not a normal one. It would, there- 
fore, in all probability prove quite transitory. When 
she was well and strong again would she not be able 
to look back upon the episode with the self-scorn, 
almost the shame, with which Charlotte Bronte had 
afterward regarded her own similar experience? 
Yes, shame at yielding to a passing weakness. Char- 
lotte, however, had been governed by M. Heger’s 
dominating personality, by the power of his influ- 
ence, when she entered the confessional at St. Gu- 
dule’s. But Ursula had no such excuse as that to 
offer. She was quite free from human influence of 
the kind. She had listened, it is true, with interest, 
and even pleasure when Mario had talked to her on 
the subject of religion, although even then she had 
been aware of a slight scruple. She had known, too, 
that he was trying to convert her, for a purpose of 
his own. She had always, therefore, kept an open 
mind when listening to his discourses. 

Nor could she attribute her present action to the 
influence of Humphrey. Yet it was he and not 


URSULA FINCH 


183 

Mario who had first spoken to her of the beauty 
and holiness of the Catholic Church, although he did 
not even belong to it. But everything that she had 
endured of late had brought her step by step to her 
present pass. Looking back upon those last weeks 
at Pentarn and the numbing grief she had felt when 
they had so coldly and deliberately banished her, she 
was able to realize that she had most truly loved 
Humphrey Willmot. When they sent her away she 
had felt like a child, betrayed by the surreptitious 
removal of a favorite toy. For a time the whole 
world had seemed dark with loss. She had long 
ago guessed that she had been sent away on Daphne’s 
account. They had not scrupled to hurt her; they 
had used their unquestionable power to get rid of 
her. And so they had lost all right to dictate to 
her. They must not complain if she now used her 
liberty as seemed best for her own soul. She had 
lost Humphrey, and she had done her best to forget 
him ; she had nearly died, and they had not known it, 
they had known nothing indeed of the extremity of 
her bitter need. 

These thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, 
crystallizing her resolve. She threw back her head, 
and her face grew a little hard with determination. 

“I — I should like to be instructed,” she said; “I 
am very, very ignorant.” She was thinking to her- 
self: “I shall never get such a chance as this again. 
When they come back I shall have to work harder 
than ever because they will think I have been so 
idle all these weeks.” 

The priest gave her some directions. She was 
to come again on the following day, about the same 
hour, and he would give her an introduction to an 
English nun in a convent not far away. She would 
teach her all that was necessary for her to know. In 


184 


URSULA FINCH 


the meantime she must take care of her health — 
strangers often found that season of the year un- 
healthy in Rome. His words were kind and fatherly. 
Then he disappeared for a few minutes and re- 
turned, bringing some books. To her surprise they 
were in English. 

“Yes, English people come to us sometimes, they 
prefer in the first instance not to seek out an Eng- 
lish priest through the mistaken idea that they might 
be talked about. I suppose they think also that here 
they are less likely to be observed by their own coun- 
trymen. Some of us,” and he smiled, “still like to 
seek Our Lord as Nicodemus did, at night!” 

Ursula went away with the books. She thought to 
herself : “Of course, I don’t mean to go back or to see 
the nun. I don’t really mean to be a Catholic. I 
mustn’t let myself be influenced by a dream — that 
would be absurd. It’s because I’m ill — I’m not my- 
self. I ought never to have gone into that church 
and talked to that priest. Luckily he doesn’t know 
who I am; I’m never likely to see him again, so 
there’s no harm done.” 

She went back to the flat, and all the evening she 
struggled against the sense of having been en- 
chained. Not her body — that was free enough — 
but her soul. It was as if it had been captured by 
that fierce overmastering force that had driven her 
into the confessional, a force against which she was 
utterly powerless. It had nothing to do with the 
priest ; he had not argued with her at all. It had 
something perhaps to do with her dream of the Ma- 
donna. But, in any case, it held her, it would not 
let her go. She struggled, as indeed the human 
heart nearly always struggles, against the first direct 
infusion of divine grace. It rebels against the 
thought of that sweet prisoning from which it shall 
no more escape, except by ways too dark and evil 


URSULA FINCH 


185 


to be contemplated. Ursula struggled, and then 
suddenly she had no wish to combat it any more. 
She sank down as it were into that ocean of spiritual 
light and love that was waiting to receive her. 

Still live in me this loving strife, 

Of living death and dying life; 

For while Thou sweetly slayest me, 

Dead to myself, I live in Thee 


CHAPTER XVIII 


U rsula was invited to spend a few days in the 
convent after presenting herself there, with the 
letter of introduction she had received from the Do- 
minican priest. The Reverend Mother could not 
refuse hospitality to this solitary waif who was tim- 
idly knocking at the door of the Church, uncertain 
as yet whether she really craved admittance or not. 

Her life in the convent was a great contrast to 
the one she had led in the Garronis’ flat. She had 
nothing to do now except to think, to pray and to 
rest. Her tired, exhausted body needed just those 
things to restore it to its old equilibrium. 

The place was scrupulously clean; her room, 
though small, was light and airy, and the hours were 
so regular that everything moved with clockwork 
punctuality. The day began with Mass in the nuns’ 
chapel at seven o’clock, and after the first day or 
two Ursula was able to attend it regularly. Through- 
out the day there was exposition of the Blessed 
Sacrament, and two nuns were always kneeling there 
in adoration before their Master. Every half hour 
the guard was changed and two others came in to 
relieve the watchers. With their white veils and 
black habits, they looked as motionless as statues, as 
they knelt there with bowed heads. It was a simple 
and regular routine of worship and work. 

Every day Ursula received two short instructions 
from Mother Lucia, the nun to whom she had been 
introduced by the Dominican. In the intervals she 
read many spiritual books, and also spent much time 
praying in the chapel. As she grew stronger she 
was able to go for walks through the gay and 
crowded streets of Rome, visiting in this way many 
186 


URSULA FINCH 


187 

important churches. She was happy, and for the 
first time in her life she enjoyed rest and leisure. 
The atmosphere of the convent — one of love and 
charity — soothed her tired mind and body. 

She concealed nothing of her history from Mother 
Lucia. She told her story simply, the circumstances 
of her coming to Italy, of her unhappiness with the 
Garroni family, of all that Mario had informed her 
concerning the children. Quite evidently she did 
not in the least realize the importance, from a 
Catholic point of view, of what she was saying. That 
Garroni was a Freemason who would not permit his 
children to be baptized by a priest, and whose wife, 
a Protestant, was absolutely antagonistic to the 
Catholic Church, revealed to Mother Lucia a state 
of things, alas, not too uncommon, but which aroused 
a sense of horror within her which she saw that 
Ursula was very far from sharing. 

It was difficult for Ursula to explain why she had 
gone into the confessional and asked help of a 
strange priest. Perhaps no convert is ever able to 
give an exact reason for the first definite step he 
made on the “road to Rome.” Ursula was, indeed, 
so curiously ignorant that Mother Lucia wondered 
why she had ever followed up that first step. But 
she was touched by the girl’s loneliness, her obvious 
fragility, that was evidently the result of a sharp 
attack of illness, as well as by the fact that she was 
so completely stranded in Rome; and she knew that 
if nothing more came of Ursula’s visit she would at 
least have held out a hewing hand to a fellow-coun- 
trywoman in distress. It was, indeed, as a soul in 
great need that Ursula appealed to her. 

Ursula herself still felt like a person in a dream. 
That she should find herself here in the convent at 
all, was wont to perplex and bewilder her when she 
began to realize it. But she was no longer friendless. 


i88 


URSULA FINCH 


that was the great thing. When she looked at 
Mother Lucia’s beautiful calm face, framed in its 
white coif and black veil, she had a sense of security, 
a feeling that the affection she gave her was an 
enduring one because it was inspired and sanctified 
by the great love of God that burned in her heart. 
The thought gave her courage. She did not even 
stop to ask herself what Madame Garroni would say 
when she discovered — if she ever did — that she had 
passed part of her holiday in a convent. Ursula 
had almost reached the point of resolving never to be 
afraid of any human being again. The conscious 
liberty of the individual with its gift of free-will had 
awakened within her. She had a right to shape her 
own life, and instinctively she was aware that Mother 
Lucia would help and guide her to a right shaping. 

Sometimes, indeed, she still had the feeling that 
she was being moved by some arbitrary and perhaps 
capricious force that assigned small importance to 
any choice or predilection of her own. She was, in 
a sense, being led by the hand. And although she 
had no very definite wish to become a Catholic — she 
was still too ignorant of all the Church had to offer 
for that — she had, as many converts have, a very 
strong feeling that to become one was required of 
her. Ursula was physically too weak for any ener- 
getic rebellion such as so many display against a call 
that seems to them capricious rather than divine. 
She followed the line of least resistance, obeying 
Mother Lucia in all the little details of her daily life, 
going step by step painfully, gropingly, toward a 
goal that was neither wholly desired nor undesired 
by her. It was what she had to do, simply that, and 
nothing else. As she made progress — and she was 
very quick to learn — she became obsessed with the 
conviction that it was what God required of her, for 
some well-defined spiritual reason that was still 


URSULA FINCH 


189 


hidden from her. And if it involved sacrifice, such 
as a complete rupture between herself and Pentarn, 
a remorseless, permanent cutting of old ties, she 
was ready to offer that sacrifice. Even Humphrey 
Willmot, rich, free and independent, had stopped 
short of taking that step, although she knew that it 
had allured him. It was no longer any pain to her 
to think of Humphrey. He had done his work, for 
it was he who had sown that first seed of her con- 
version, astonished though he would have been if 
anyone had accused him of such a feat. He was 
the first person who had ever in her hearing praised 
the Catholic Church, and made her face the fact that 
it was the only Church that had held sway in Eng- 
land before the so-called Reformation, and that from 
its ranks innumerable saints and martyrs had sprung. 
Humphrey had openly regretted the Reformation, 
he had mourned over the violated abandoned shrines 
with which England is strewn. Then came Mario, 
speaking with the more assured and certain voice 
of the man who is Catholic-born. Devout and well- 
educated in the things of his faith, he had shown her 
something of the Church as the most powerful living 
force that exists in the world. Yet, when she looked 
back she saw that all they had been able to 
accomplish had amounted to very little. The rest 
had been her own doing; or could she, indeed, say 
that it had been her own doing when she had been 
irresistibly impelled forward by some mighty and 
invisible power? That sudden recollection of one 
of the most notable scenes in Villette had prompted 
her to a half-conscious imitation of the woman, strug- 
gling like herself against the twin desolations of 
solitude and sickness. Only it had not ended there 
with her, as it had ended with Charlotte Bronte and 
her prototype, Lucy Snowe. She could not have 
gone away as they did to utter bitter diatribes against 


190 


URSULA FINCH 


a Church that had offered her its promise of consola- 
tion and pardon. Ursula had gone forward, per- 
haps, because she was of a meeker and more obedient 
disposition, and also because it was always easier 
for her to obey a given mandate than to refuse 
consent. That was why she had gone, almost against 
her conscience, to see Mother Lucia at the bidding 
of the Dominican priest. That was why she had 
come to stay in the convent, and now attended her 
instructions day by day. She had the feeling too, 
ever stronger, that by doing these very things she 
was fulfilling her spiritual destiny. God had asked 
this thing of her. It was not easy, and when she 
dared to examine it courageously it even seemed very 
hard and difficult, and also far-reaching in its conse- 
quences, but it was something that she was called 
upon to do. It scarcely attracted her, but what hard 
necessary task had ever attracted her? She had 
learned to accomplish her work in too bitter a school 
to suffer any illusions about it.. And this was one 
more task to be done. It was too soon to think of 
praise and blame. The great thing was to get on 
with it, to finish it. She had a conviction that in 
taking the step she would receive strength to endure 
the consequences, however hard they might prove. 

“I think now that you are ready to be received,” 
said Mother Lucia about a fortnight later. “I 
should like you to make a few days’ retreat first. 
Then you can be received before Madame Garroni 
returns. Afterward there might be some difficulty 
about your coming here.” 

The convert’s first question is as a rule : “When 
do you think I shall be ready to be received?” But 
Ursula had never asked this question, she had never 
once alluded to the future. She had been very 
quietly happy, and insensibly, day by day, the little 
plant of faith had grown and flourished in her heart. 


URSULA FINCH 


191 

Rome Is a fruitful soil for the catechumen to grow 
up and expand in. He cannot walk many yards, 
except perhaps in the new quarters of the city, with- 
out receiving some reminder of the faith from pic- 
ture or crucifix or church. He is aware that the very 
ground upon which he treads was once watered by 
the blood of martyrs who died for that very faith 
toward which he is turning his eyes. 

Just for a moment she was a little startled by 
Mother Lucia’s speech. It was, of course, the logical 
outcome of all her actions since that evening when 
she had strayed into the Dominican church. She was 
quite certain now that she wished to take the step, 
and that there was no other course open to her. 
Perhaps she was intended hereafter to be the humble 
instrument that was to help to save the faith of the 
Garroni children. But she was disinclined to think 
very much about the future. Although it might con- 
ceivably hold moments of even greater anguish and 
suffering than those through which she had passed, 
she knew that life could never again plunge her into 
that slough of despond from which she had, with 
such difficulty, emerged sane and balanced. She had 
known the Rod and received its sharp stripes in the 
blind despair of ignorance, but now she was also to 
know the Staff, to learn to lean upon it and rejoice 
in its divine support. She had the feeling, common 
to most converts, that mortal perils and physical 
suffering would necessarily lose for her something 
of their terror. My grace is sufficient for thee. 
Wonderful words of strength and consolation! 

And then whatever happened she would never be 
alone in the same way again. 

The little ceremony in the nuns’ private chapel 
passed like a dream. An English priest received her 
abjuration which Ursula read in a low distinct voice. 
Mother Lucia was by her side, prompting her; she 


192 


URSULA FINCH 


felt her presence like an encouragement. Behind a 
grille some nuns were chanting very sweetly. Ursula 
thought their singing of the V eni Creator Spiritus 
would echo in her ears till the end of her life. But 
she went through it all quietly and without any ap- 
parent emotion. Her confession, her conditional 
baptism, her absolution formed as it were a complete 
little sequence in that drama, so old, and yet for each 
individual soul, how new ! 

And on the morrow would come to her, as it comes 
indeed to all Catholics whether converts or not, that 
crowning reward of faith which sets the seal of 
Christ’s precious blood upon the heart forever. He 
that eateth My flesh and drinketh My blood abideth 
in Me and I in him. 


CHAPTER XIX 


days later Ursula was summoned downstairs 
to one of the parlors, having been told that a 
visitor was awaiting her. She wondered who it 
could be, and for a moment had even a horrible 
little suspicion that it might prove to be Madame 
Garroni herself. But as she entered the rather bare, 
neat little room, she discovered to her astonishment 
that it was no other than Mario Linelli. He looked 
bewildered and slightly perturbed. 

“What are you doing here? You haven’t left us, 
have you?” 

His voice sounded reproachful, almost rough. 

“No, I came here on a visit. I was ill after 
Madame Garroni went away. Once I thought I 
should die.” 

“You look very well now,” said Mario, abruptly. 

Truth to tell he had never seen Ursula look so 
nearly beautiful before. All the strain of severe 
fatigue had left her face. Her dark eyes were 
shining brilliantly; her skin, always delicate, was 
paler since her illness and yet had a more healthy 
appearance. She had changed, and her face was 
softer. She looked happier, and immeasurably more 
at peace. 

“How did you find me ?” she asked, sitting down 
in one of the chairs. 

“The porter’s wife gave me your address, al- 
though I must tell you she did it very reluctantly. 
I have brought two letters for you. They have been 
lying there for some days.” He produced two 
envelopes from his pocket and handed them to her. 

Ursula took them eagerly. One was from her 
mother; the other was addressed in a writing she 
193 


194 


URSULA FINCH 


did not at once identify, and yet she knew that she 
had seen it before. With a little shock she suddenly 
realized that it was from Humphrey Willmot. How 
she wished it could have come to cheer her during 
those tragic days she had spent alone at the flat! 
Now she did not need any such cheering, and yet it 
was a pleasure to feel that he had not quite forgotten 
her. Perhaps, he had only written to inform her 
of his engagement to Daphne. She had been waiting 
for that news all the summer. She wondered if it 
would have the power to hurt her now. She felt 
so strong, almost invulnerable. 

“Will you not tell me why you, a Protestant, 
should be staying in a convent with Catholic nuns?” 
he asked, interrupting her thoughts of Humphrey 
Willmot. 

“I am not a Protestant now,” she told him in a 
low voice. 

Mario sprang up from his seat. He grew very 
red. His dark eyes regarded her incredulously. 

“I was received the day before yesterday. Mother 
Lucia has been teaching me ever since I came here.” 
There was something delicious in the quiet simplicity 
with which she spoke. 

“I am glad, so very glad, so very thankful,” he 
told her, taking her hand and holding it in his. “I 
can hardly realize it.” He looked at her. She 
showed no signs now of that past spiritual struggle. 
Her face was beautiful in its indescribable serenity. 
“Have you made your first communion?” 

“Yes. Yesterday morning.” 

So that was the reason. You could not traverse 
those transcendental experiences, and remain un- 
changed. Yet how quick the call and the response 
must both have been I 

“I can’t imagine what my aunt will say!” he ex- 


URSULA FINCH 


195 

claimed, “and, of course, if Guido hears of it you’ll 
be turned out of his house, neck and crop !” 

“Must they know?” she asked. 

“I should certainly advise you to be silent about it 
just for the present. But you have friends here, I 
suppose, and if anything happened they could always 
receive you. And even if you aren’t very happy 
with us I hope you will try to stay a little longer. 
You can teach poor little Alda and Rosina so much 
now. You’ll be fighting the spirit of evil.” 

“Yes,” she assented. “I’ve sometimes thought 
that was the reason why I had to become a Catholic.” 

“No one forced you, I hope? You wished it, 
didn’t you?” 

“I don’t think I really wished for it so very much 
in the beginning. I felt I had to do it — that it 
would be wrong to disobey, to stand aside. So I 
made up my mind to learn all I could, and now that 
I’ve been received I know how very much I really 
wanted It all the time. I am glad and so happy. 
I felt yesterday morning as if I must die of joy.” 
She made this admission almost timidly. 

“You are a strange creature, Ursula,” he said, 
calling her by her name for the first time. “But 
it was brave of you to come so blindly. May God 
reward you!” 

He took her hand in his and kissed it almost 
reverently. His dark eyes rested upon hers. 

“I’m not really brave. I simply had to come,” 
she assured him. It was still the only explanation 
she was able to give of all those happenings of the 
last few weeks. Even if it meant in the future total 
separation from home, parents and kindred, as well 
as an abrupt summary dismissal from the Garroni 
family, Ursula knew that no previous and more pre- 
cise knowledge of these calamities would have in- 
duced her to alter her course, by one hair’s breadth. 


196 


URSULA FINCH 


She had responded to the helm, steered by some un- 
seen Hand in whose guidance she had felt a blind 
infused confidence. 

“I came to tell you that they are all coming home 
to-morrow,” said Mario presently; “so you’d better 
come back this evening and get things a bit straight 
for them. I’m staying with a friend for a day or 
two. There’ll be no servant to help you at first, 
but I shall be free at six and then I’ll come to help 
you fix things up a bit.” 

“Thank you very much,” said Ursula; “I’ll go up 
and pack.” 

So the prison walls were about to close in upon 
her once more. Youth seemed to cry aloud in futile 
rebellion against this loss of liberty, but she stifled 
its voice. Her duty was so clear. To go back to 
her brick-making, to help Alda and Rosina, to give 
them such teaching as she was capable of. She saw 
herself secretly fighting against Madame Garroni’s 
ignorant prejudices, and against Guido Garroni’s 
deliberate and malicious antagonism. All of a sud- 
den she felt weak and helpless. Surely she couldn’t 
be called upon to do real active work for the faith 
so soon? She was a little child in spiritual things 
herself, knowing scarcely more than the children 
whose souls she was to defend. Her heart sank at 
the prospect. She was unworthy of such a high 
mission. 

“You know I will always give you all the help I 
can,” said Mario, taking up his hat. 

“Thank you,” said Ursula. 

He went away saying to himself: “What a life 
for a young girl! What a life! How can she 
endure it? And she’s of a different class from 
Arabella — she’s signorile!* 

He felt that he had seen Ursula under an entirely 
new aspect to-day, and she had seemed to him both 
beautiful and attractive. 


URSULA FINCH 


197 


“But, of course, she won’t stay,” he murmured 
as he went down the street. “Why should she? 
She could find a dozen better places to-morrow if 
she chose to look for them.” 

She would find a softer job now that she was a 
Catholic. Many of the noble houses would be glad 
to receive such a girl as that to educate their children. 
At home how would she ever succeed even in hearing 
Mass on Sundays? It was an impossible position 
for her. Yet he longed for her to stay, not solely 
on the children’s account but also on his own. 

Ursula went upstairs to her room after Mario had 
gone and opened her mother’s letter. Mrs. Finch 
was never a good correspondent, and she always 
grudged the extra payment for a foreign letter. Nor 
could she ever find much to say to her second daugh- 
ter. But this letter was a quite unusually long one. 

“I wish you had never gone away,” she wrote, 
“and as it turns out it would have been far better 
if you had remained at home. Ruth is so slow, she 
does not get through half what you used to, and 
Jenny is more idle and stupid than ever. Nicholas 
got into debt at Oxford, you know how opposed I 
always was to his going there at all, and your father 
was so angry that he refused to pay, though I am 
certain he could have done so if he had chosen. He 
gave Nicholas five pounds and sent him to Canada. 
I don’t suppose he will do any good there. Still it 
seems hard that an only son should be treated in 
this way. Daphne is engaged to Lord Cheam. He 
is over sixty years old and has been married twice 
before, but he is very rich. His children are all 
grown up and married so that they will not be at all 
in Daphne’s way. Mrs. Willmot arranged it all 
and Daphne is still staying with them in Scotland, 
and Lord Cheam is there too. I have not seen 


198 


URSULA FINCH 


Daphne since she went to London in June. She 
enjoyed it very much, though I think it was a dis- 
appointment to her just at first that young Mr. Will- 
mot went away almost at once on a yachting trip to 
Norway, and I don’t believe he has come back yet. 
However, his mother told her she can never count 
upon him, and indeed from what we knew of him 
when he was down here we all saw that he was a 
very eccentric, extraordinary young man. I am sure 
I distrusted him from the first. However, it does 
not matter in the least, for Daphne has done very 
much better than that, and she will have a title into 
the bargain. Lord Cheam is devoted to her and she 
is very happy. Young Carter has gone away — they 
say to Italy — I suppose he is upset at the news. 
Ruth has grown very tall. I had to send for a 
doctor as she seemed so unwell. He said that she 
ought to lead a very quiet life because her heart is 
weak. He told me to give her plenty of nourishing 
food, but he did not say how I was to pay for it. 
Your father is well, but very angry with Nicholas, 
and also with Mr. Baynes’ new curate who calls 
himself a Catholic I Except for darling Daphne our 
children are no comfort to us at all. If I had the 
money to pay for your journey I should ask you to 
come home. By the way, you have not sent me any 
of your salary this last month. You must not get 
into the selfish habit of spending it all on yourself. 
Children ought to show their gratitude to their 
parents for all that they have received from them 
in the past.” 

As Ursula read the letter she seemed transported 
back to Pentarn, as if by some magical process. She 
saw the sea beating up against the Cornish cliffs, 
blurring their gaunt granite sides with a mist of 
foam. She could see the Island lifting its blunt shape 


URSULA FINCH 


199 


against the dark blue line of the Atlantic. She could 
hear the sea-gulls uttering their tortured restless 
cries. The wind was shrieking through the trees 
in the rectory garden, the thunder of the sea was 
in her ears. 

So Daphne was to be married at last ! 

Ursula had never before heard of Lord Cheam; 
his brief days of unsuccessful statesmanship were 
long past. She tried to picture him but failed. He 
was an old man, at least thirty-five years older than 
Daphne. He was nearly as old as her own father, 
and considerably older than Mrs. Finch. But he 
was rich. Perhaps he would even be able to help 
Nicholas. Or was it too late? Nicholas, a mere 
boy, not yet twenty, had been forced to leave the 
country by his father. She could picture Nicholas, 
bitter, sullen, reckless, with black knitted brows, and 
dark defiant eyes. She wished she had been there to 
comfort him, to help him. As a boy he had always 
turned to her when he had got into a worse scrape 
than usual, and had suffered physically from his 
father’s violence. He must have gone away with the 
sound of his father’s raging, his mother’s weeping, 
in his ears. Ursula had always had a tender and 
soft spot for Nicholas in her heart. She loved him 
almost better than Ruth, and it nearly broke her 
heart now to know that he had gone forth like that 
alone to fight his way in an unknown country. And 
Ruth — she felt anxious about Ruth. The girl was 
not strong enough to fill the place her own departure 
had left empty. The news from home disturbed her, 
although it was easy to see that to Mrs. Finch, 
Daphne’s engagement amply compensated for all 
the ills and disasters that might occur to Ruth and 
Nicholas. 

She cried a little, feeling suddenly rather home- 
sick, and wishing she were at hand to help Ruth, 


200 


URSULA FINCH 


and to find out where Nicholas was and write to him. 
It was some little time before she remembered that 
Humphrey’s letter was still lying there, unopened, 
and unread. 

It was very short, brief and business-like. 

^^Dear Miss Finch: I have only to-day returned 
home after a delightful trip to Norway and Sweden. 
I was greeted on arrival with the news of your 
sisteFs engagement to old Cheam. She might have 
done much worse, for he is considered a very warm 
man indeed. She has left here so I have had no 
opportunity of congratulating her, as she is on a visit 
to his eldest daughter. Lady Salvage. I am sending 
you a little parcel of hooks which I hope you will 
receive safely. My mother tells me that she believes 
you are still in Rome. I hope you have not spent the 
whole summer there. You might write and relieve 
my anxiety on this point. Are you happy in your 
present surroundings? I do entreat you to leave them 
if you are not. I have an idea you endure too meekly. 
It is a bad habit, and may become chronic if too 
freely indulged in. 

**Yours very sincerely, 

“Humphrey Willmot.” 

It was kind and friendly, and it showed her that 
she was not quite forgotten. Daphne’s engagement 
had obviously left him cold, as the saying is. The 
letter tranquilized her. If she ever wrote to tell 
any one of the step she had so recently taken she 
thought it would be Humphrey Willmot. But per- 
haps it would be wiser not to write to him at all. 
Even this little cool friendly letter had made her 
heart beat with something of the old violence it had 
known when she had come upon him unawares at 
Pentarn. She must not think of Humphrey any 


URSULA FINCH 


201 


more. Her work lay here. She must be brave and 
hopeful and diligent. The thought of him weakened 
her, took from her something of her high courage. 

She put aside the two letters and began to pack 
up her few possessions. Then she bade farewell to 
the nuns and drove in a cab back to the flat. Her 
last two lire went to pay the man, she had not a 
single soldo left. But perhaps now that Madame 
Garroni was returning, she would remember to give 
her those arrears of her salary which ought to have 
gone to Pentarn many weeks ago. 

Mario, true to his promise, came round soon after 
six o’clock to help her, and they spent quite a merry 
two hours restoring the apartment to order. Mario 
took off his coat and worked energetically, dusting 
and polishing the floors. At eight o’clock he said: 

“Now go and put on your hat, and we’ll have 
some dinner at a restaurant.” 

Ursula was beginning to expostulate, but he cut 
her short. 

“Nonsense ! You must eat, and there’s absolutely 
nothing in the house but coffee and bread. In the 
morning we must replenish the larder.” 

She shook her head. 

“I can’t, you know. I haven’t a soldoP^ 

His face fell. “Hasn’t Arabella paid you?” 

“Not — not very lately. I think she forgot before 
she went away.” 

“But cara mia, how have you lived ? I mean while 
you were here, before you went to the convent?” 

“I had a little money then. And while I was ill 
I couldn’t eat. I only wanted a little milk. You see 
half the time I didn’t know what I was doing.” 

“It’s perfectly abominable!” he declared wrath- 
fully. “What did she expect you to do while she 
was away?” 

“I suppose she thought I had some,” said Ursula. 


202 


URSULA FINCH 


Mario took out a pocketbook and extracted there- 
from two ten-lire notes. 

“That’ll do for the spese to-morrow,” he said, 

f iving them to her. “I’ll get it back from Arabella. 

low dare she go off like that and leave you alone 
without money?” 

“Oh, she didn’t mean it. She probably ior- 
got — ” 

“She is a miser. I dare say she finds it convenient 
to forget. Now are you coming to dine with me? 
It’s getting late, you know.” 

“Yes, if you really want me to,” she said. The 
prospect of the little adventure excited her. She had 
never dined at a restaurant in her life, and the 
novelty attracted her. She washed her hands, put 
on a clean white blouse, the best she had, and a 
hat, and set forth with Mario through the lighted 
streets. Rome was astir with throngs of pedestrians, 
carriages, motors. 

Mario knew that she was tired, so he took her to 
a restaurant close at hand in the Corso. They had 
a joyous little meal, and he seemed to enjoy the 
evening quite as much as Ursula did. It was her 
last taste of freedom, and she knew that with Ma- 
dame Garroni’s return there would be a resumption 
of the old life, the ceaseless work, the perpetual 
fault-finding, the meals made wretched with Gar- 
roni’s outbursts of temper, the nights broken by the 
children’s wakefulness and crying. Just for this 
evening she would be happy, and Mario knew that 
he had never seen her look so bright and animated 
before. She was a new Ursula who had had the 
courage to break the old chains. 

When dinner was over Mario walked back with 
her to the flat. At the top of the stairs he bade 
her good-night. 

“Good-night, and thank you,” said Ursula. 


CHAPTER XX 


O N the following morning Ursula rose early and 
went to the Dominican church to hear Mass. 
It was the first time she had returned thither since 
she had gone there to fetch the letter of introduction 
to Mother Lucia, and when she reflected upon all 
that had happened since she felt a strange thankful- 
ness. She was glad that she had had courage now 
to persevere. But for her illness and the dreadful 
despondency that had supervened, she might never 
have been led to seek that path along which so many 
pilgrims have marched to their spiritual goal. In- 
deed it seemed to Ursula now that she was one of a 
special army who had not had the happiness to be 
born and brought up in the Catholic faith but who 
had been called thither as individual souls by a 
perfectly clear and direct appeal. 

She went back to the flat when Mass was over, 
swallowed a hasty cup of coffee, ate a piece of dry 
bread, and then went out to do the marketing for 
the day. It was September now, and the grapes had 
just been brought in from the Roman hills. Ursula 
looked longingly at their dim purple and golden 
clusters, but she resisted the temptation to purchase 
any of them. Madame Garroni never permitted 
her to buy anything that was not absolutely essential. 
She had not been back in the house very long before 
voices and footsteps on the stairs announced the 
arrival of the Garroni family from its annual villegg- 
iatura. 

After a night in a hot train it cannot be said of 
many women that they look their best, and it 
certainly could not be said of Madame Garroni. 
She had grown much stouter during those weeks at 
203 


204 


URSULA FINCH 


the seaside, and her unclean blouse of dusky white 
could scarcely be coaxed into buttoning across her 
large person. Her unwashed face was red and 
slightly greasy; her hair was oddly disheveled and 
hung in wisps over her forehead. Nor was she in 
a good temper, for she was tired, and neither she 
nor the children had had any sleep that night. Alda 
had kept them all awake, and Guido had displayed 
an unprecedented selfishness by insisting upon travel- 
ing in a smoking-carriage ! 

Little Alda was still apparently in disgrace, for 
she sat on the floor weeping. 

“Now, stop that, Alda!” said Madame Garroni, 
after bestowing a hasty greeting upon Ursula, who 
went into the kitchen to deposit the results of the 
morning’s shopping. She returned just in time to 
see Madame Garroni administer a sharp impatient 
slap to her elder child. 

Alda gave a little shriek, and made a rush toward 
Ursula, flinging herself into her arms. 

“Put her down!” commanded Madame Garroni; 
“that child is becoming more unbearable every day. 
Come here at once, Alda. Miss Finch, you are not 
to try to prevent her!” 

She caught up Alda in her arms, and gave her a 
succession of sounding slaps which made her scream 
and struggle. Rosina, terrified at her sister’s fate, 
began to scream too. 

“They are tired with their journey and I am sure 
they must want their breakfast. Do let me take 
them and put them to bed,” said Ursula, in a pacify- 
ing tone. 

She picked up Alda in her arms and, calling to 
Rosina, took them both off to the nursery, away from 
their angry and irritated mother. It had made her 
blood boil to see poor little Alda treated like that, 
for the child was tired out and was not really naughty 


URSULA FINCH 


205 


at all. She wondered for the first time if Madame 
Garroni was in the habit of treating her children 
cruelly. She had never seen her look so red and 
angry before. 

She sat down upon a low chair in the nursery, and 
began to soothe and comfort poor little Alda. She 
held her closely, kissing her, murmuring gentle words 
in her ear. Then she quietly undressed them, put 
them into their cribs, and was rewarded by seeing 
them both fall asleep before she went to prepare 
the breakfast. 

Madame Garroni’s temper had not improved, and 
from what Ursula was able to gather from the 
scraps of information vouchsafed to her, their so- 
journ at the seaside could not have been an alto- 
gether enjoyable one. The rooms were small and 
inconvenient; they had been extremely crowded, 
Alda had slept with her grandmother and Rosina 
with her parents. Madame Garroni had had to 
slave after the children — as she expressed it — all 
day. Alda had been very troublesome, and she had 
formed the opinion that Miss Finch had spoiled her. 
She used to be far more tractable and obedient. 

During the days that followed Ursula did her 
best to keep the little girls out of their mother’s 
way. Little Alda especially annoyed her, and being 
a nervous, highly strung child she was terrified of 
her mother, and fear made her clumsy and awkward. 
Rosina being more placid, and of a more normal 
type, fared better, in addition to which she had al- 
jvays been a greater favorite with her mother. 

Ursula soon perceived that Madame Garroni did 
not intend to replace Anna. Her own tasks were 
therefore greatly augmented, for she now had to do 
all the cooking and most of the housework. Often 
she was so tired that she could hardly drag her weary 
limbs as far as the Pincio or the Borghcse Gardens, 


206 


URSULA FINCH 


to give the children their customary walk. But she 
was reading the life of St. Zita, and It gave her 
courage and a certain supernatural endurance. It 
did not occur to her that it would be quite easy for 
her to find a far more desirable post through Mother 
Lucia who was often asked to recommend Catholic 
Englishwomen as governesses In Italian families. 
Her work here seemed more than ever clearly de- 
fined. When she was with the children she often 
found opportunities of telling them the truths of 
their religion. Alda drank it In with a strange ready 
eagerness, as If her little soul were ardently athirst 
for its nourishment. As often as she dared Ursula 
took them both into a church to pray. Sometimes on 
Sunday she even succeeded In hearing Mass with 
them. The children were very devoted to her and 
obeyed her readily. Old Signora Garroni watched 
her with approving eyes. Mario had informed her 
of the “mees” conversion. 

It was a hard and in many ways a mortified life, 
but Ursula had long been inured to hardship, and 
she was far less unhappy than of old, as people 
always are when they have the wisdom to perceive 
the purpose underlying all their daily life. 

A week or two after her return Madame Garroni 
received an English newspaper from Mrs. Burton, 
containing the announcement of Daphne’s engage- 
ment to Lord Cheam. She wondered why Ursula 
had not mentioned this important event to her. She 
felt a certain snobbish regret that she had not made 
things easier for her. Perhaps the girl would want 
to leave her now. Her sister’s marriage would 
naturally affect her. Madame Garroni did not wish 
Ursula to go away, for she was both cheap and 
willing. She saved her a servant, and ate far less 
than servants did. 

She went Into the kitchen, holding the newspaper 


URSULA FINCH 


207 


In her hand. The October day was summer-like, and 
despite the h^at that still prevailed in Rome, Ursula 
was standing over the gas-cooker, preparing the 
midday meal. 

“I hope you are not boiling that macaroni too 
long,” said Madame Garroni; “you know how much 
Guido dislikes it when it is at all soft. He is the 
head of the house and his tastes must be considered. 
We English, of course, prefer it soft.” 

She looked keenly at Ursula. The girl was pale 
and heavy-eyed. Alda had been awake nearly all 
night. 

“You never told me this wonderful news about 
your sister,” continued Madame Garroni; “it will 
no doubt affect your own prospects. I don’t suppose 
a wealthy man like Lord Cheam — I am sure he must 
be wealthy from his London address — will care to 
have his sister-in-law earning her own living.” 

“As a cook?” interposed Ursula. She regretted 
the words directly they were uttered. But the heat 
had upset her a little, and she knew that she could 
never do the macaroni to suit Garroni’s taste. He 
was seldom satisfied with his food. 

She stirred the contents of the saucepan. 

“You are not a cook,” said Madame Garroni, “1 
engaged you as a nursery-governess for my children. 
Of course, I expected you also to make yourself 
useful. Plenty of work — that’s the way to keep 
girls out of mischief, as my father used to say. I am 
very thankul to him now.” 

“I don’t suppose it will make much difference to 
Lord Cheam which I am,” said Ursula; “he is never 
likely to hear about it.” 

“Still, it’s a great match for her, isn’t it? I always 
think clergymen’s daughters are much to be envied. 
Men always think they have been so carefully 
brought up ! I wonder if they will come to Rome for 


2o8 


URSULA FINCH 


their honeymoon? A honeymoon in Italy! That 
was every girl’s dream when I was young, Miss 
Finch.” 

“Was it?” said Ursula, hardly heeding her. 

“Things never turn out quite as one expects,” 
pursued Madame Garroni, with uncomfortable re- 
collections of her own wedding-journey. “I suppose 
you have heard full particulars from home?” 

“I heard about it from my mother. Daphne never 
writes,” said Ursula. 

“Of course your mother must be delighted! I 
wonder where they met? Not at poor little Pentarn, 
I am sure I” 

“No, I think it was in Scotland. Daphne has been 
away visiting all the summer.” 

“I suppose she is very pretty?” said Madame 
Garroni, with a sigh. 

“Yes, she is considered beautiful.” 

“Well, I am sure you are all very much to be con- 
gratulated. I am afraid I can hardly hope to keep 
you here now that your sister is going to be a 
peeress!” 

She went out of the kitchen, satisfied that so far 
no plans had been made for removing Ursula. She 
wished, however, that the girl would be more com- 
municative. But perhaps she was really as ignorant 
as she seemed to be. She hardly ever received letters 
from home, and she certainly could have very little 
leisure for writing to her people. What did she tell 
them when she wrote to them? Did she ever com- 
plain? That remark about the cooking for instance 
had been the first word suggestive of complaint that 
Madame Garroni had ever heard from her lips. Of 
course, it was very impertinent of her to speak like 
that. Still, it was a relief to know that she was not 
contemplating an immediate departure. It was so 
difficult to find a servant now, and still more difficult 


URSULA FINCH 


209 


to induce her to stay when she was found, that it 
was a comfort to have someone there who would 
do the work and who could hardly go away even if 
she wanted to. 

At luncheon Guido Garroni said : 

“Who cooked this macaroni?” 

“Miss Finch.” 

“It’s ruined — it’s not fit to eat. As if any English- 
woman could ever cook macaroni properly! Why 
don’t you do it yourself? What has made you so 
lazy all of a sudden?” His face was red and angry, 
and although he spoke in rapid Italian Ursula could 
catch the gist of his words. “I thought you brought 
Miss Finch out here to look after the children? 
That is her department, it is your business to see 
that my food is properly cooked!” 

Madame Garroni looked severely at Ursula, with 
an expression that seemed to indicate clearly, “Didn’t 
I tell you?” She was annoyed that Guido should 
vent his wrath upon herself. 

“I knew how it would be,” he went on angrily, 
“if you went to England to visit your rich idle rela- 
tions. You have not done a stroke of work since 
you came back. You leave it all to the ‘mees.’ As 
if she had not enough to do to look after the 
children I” 

“The children want very little looking after when 
they are in the house,” she returned. “Miss Finch 
only has to take them out for their walks. She has 
nothing in the world to do — ^you ought to be glad for 
me to have a little help. I have always had a 
servant all my life, and if I have not kept two it is 
because you are so miserly with my money !” 

She was angry and she raised her voice as she 
spoke. Alda began to whimper, and turned to hide 
her face against Ursula’s shoulder. 

“Take Alda out of the room at once! She shall 


210 


URSULA FINCH 


not come back till she has learned to behave,” said 
Madame Garroni. 

She did not wish Ursula to hear the scolding that 
Guido was bent upon giving her. It would be mis- 
taken kindness to let the girl pass her days in idle- 
ness. And if she understood anything of what he 
was saying she might conceivably imagine that he 
was actually taking her part. 

The storm continued and had hardly subsided by 
the time Ursula returned, holding Alda by the hand. 
She had managed to soothe and pacify the child, who 
took her seat again quietly at the table. 


CHAPTER XXI 


O NE day old Caterina Garroni put her head into 
the salotto where her daughter-in-law was lying 
on the sofa, reading a novel which had just arrived 
from England. 

“Arabella,” she said, “I think you had better come 
into the nursery. Alda is ill — she has fever.” 

“Nonsense ! She’s only lazy. I’ll go and make 
her get up.” 

She rose heavily from her comfortable recumbent 
posture. Alda had been tiresome and fretful of late. 
She needed correction. Madame Garroni repaired 
to the nursery. 

The room was darkened by the wooden shutters 
closed across the windows. Rosina was playing on 
the floor with some bricks. On her little crib Alda 
lay with upturned face. She was very white except 
for the pink fever-patches that burnt in her cheeks. 
As her mother approached she made a shrinking 
movement and began to whimper. “ ‘Mees’ I 
‘Mees’ !” she cried. 

“You need not call ‘mees’ when I am here. Why 
are you lying in bed? Do you want another whip- 
ping?” 

She was going to take the child by the wrist, but 
Ursula came swiftly across the room and with a 
quiet but authoritative gesture released Alda. 

“She must on no account get up. She is very ill,” 
she said firmly. 

Madame Garroni was cowered by the expression 
in Ursula’s face. It was quite an appreciable time 
before she regained sufficient self-control to reply. 

“How dare you interfere between me and my 
children ? Don’t you suppose a mother knows best ?” 
211 


212 


URSULA FINCH 


“I am sure you ought to send for a doctor as soon 
as possible,” said Ursula. 

She remembered her own illness, wondering how 
she had ever struggled through it, without nurse or 
doctor to attend to her. But Alda was a frail little 
thing; she could not possibly be left to fight it single- 
handed. 

“A doctor? Stuff and nonsense ! I never send for 
one unless there is real illness.” 

Nevertheless she went out of the room feeling 
thoroughly uncomfortable. She couldn’t forget the 
expression in Ursula’s face when she was defending 
Alda from her. Madame Garroni was not a cruel 
woman but she liked to have her own way, and she 
was certain that she knew far more about children 
than Ursula did. 

She suffered too from a chronic inability to ac- 
custom herself to the ways of her foreign life, and 
this engendered a continual irritability which was 
now becoming actual ill-temper. Too often, alas, 
she had vented this of late upon little Alda. 

“I shall wait and see how she is ^his evening,” she 
reflected. “It’s no good sending for a doctor unless 
one is quite sure it is necessary. It’s waste of 
money.” 

Mario came home to luncheon that day; he had 
just returned to Rome. They were sitting at the table 
when he appeared. Guido had been detained at the 
office and had sent a message to say he would not 
be back. 

“Why, where’s Alda ?” he said, looking round the 
table. 

“Alda is in bed. She has got a little fever to-day,” 
said Madame Garroni. 

She was sorry that Mario had come back just 
then. He would be certain to uphold Miss Finch in 


URSULA FINCH 


213 

her wish that the doctor might be sent for. Italians 
were always so fussy about children. 

“Fever! How long’s she been ill?’’ asked Mario. 

“Only just this morning. And she isn’t really ill. 
You needn’t worry about her. Miss Finch isn’t 
accustomed to children and their perpetual little 
ailments. They are always much worse if too much 
notice is taken of them I I was never encouraged to 
be ill as a child. I can remember being punished 
for saying I had a headache.” 

She was fond of referring to her own Spartan 
upbringing, as an excuse for the mitigated severity 
of her own rule. 

“Cold baths all the year round,” she went on, 
“whether you had to break the ice or not! Such 
chilblains as we used to have ! There was no non- 
sense of indulgence in our home. We were brought 
up to be hardy.” 

“I congratulate you upon having survived,” said 
Mario, with a flash of white teeth. “But little Alda 
is a delicate child, you mustn’t try to harden her.” 
He shrugged his shoulders. “Has my grandmother 
seen her?” 

“Yes, it was she who told me first that Alda wasn’t 
well. I never knew such a country for clinical ther- 
mometers. Even the children know how to take 
their own temperatures !” 

Mario felt vaguely anxious. He was devoted to 
both his little cousins, and they regarded him as a 
big, kind, elder brother. The moment luncheon was 
over he left the room and went straight to the 
nursery. Alda was lying asleep. Her face looked 
pinched and drawn, her breathing was labored. She 
stirred and moaned in her sleep. 

He was still standing by the crib when the door 
opened and Ursula came into the room. 


214 


URSULA FINCH 


“Of course, she must see a doctor at once. Fll 
go and fetch one,” he said, in a low tone. 

“Oh, do you think she’s very ill?” 

“I don’t know. I’m no judge. But I don’t like 
the look of her, and Arabella hates sending for the 
doctor. Did Alda sleep last night?” 

“Hardly at all. I gave her a little milk from time 
to time, she seemed so thirsty.” 

“So you didn’t sleep either?” 

He was astonished at her endurance. He knew 
enough of her life to know that those broken nights 
must tax her strength very heavily. 

“Oh, that doesn’t matter. If only Madame Gar- 
roni would see that she’s really ill!” 

“And that you can’t bring up a delicate baby like 
that on cold baths and whippings!” he said, grimly. 
He laid his hand lightly on Alda’s, and his face 
grew grave. The child’s hand was dry and hot ; the 
touch of it burnt him. “She ought to have had a 
doctor hours ago,” he said, looking at Ursula. 
“You’ll stay with her, of course? Don’t let her 
mother disturb her.” 

“Of course I shall stay. If she wakes she is sure 
to want some milk.” 

By night the little flat was in a state of untoward 
commotion. Alda was very ill, and the doctor, 
hastily fetched by Mario, gave orders that she must 
be watched all night. There was no question of her 
getting up, and Madame Garroni, convinced now 
that the child was not malingering, became distracted 
with anxiety. She took up her post jealously in the 
nursery, and would hardly allow anyone except 
Guido to approach the little sufferer. Quarters were 
found for Ursula and Rosina in a passage-room that 
led into the kitchen. It was an uncomfortable and 
airless spot, for it possessed no window, and there 
was scarcely room in it for their two beds. For years 


URSULA FINCH 


215 


the endless succession of “Annas” had slept there, 
soundly no doubt after the strenuous exertions of 
the day. A ragged dark curtain alone separated it 
from the public passage to the kitchen, and beyond 
this there was no attempt at privacy. “What do 
servants want with rooms except to sleep in?” Ma- 
dame Garroni would inquire from time to time, if 
any complaints reached her ears as to the inadequacy 
of the accommodation. 

Ursula had begged to be allowed to share Ma- 
dame Garroni’s watch in the nursery. She feared 
that Alda might be frightened when she awoke in 
the night, to discover that she was alone with her 
mother. She feared, too, that Madame Garroni 
would succumb to sleep during those long hours. But 
her timid request was refused, and she went to bed 
about midnight, having placed in readiness all that 
was likely to be wanted for mother or child during 
the night. 

One morning a few days later when a gleam of 
uncertain grey light stole down the passage from 
the skylight in the hall a st^ came haltingly, shuf- 
flingly, over the red tiles. Ursula looked up from 
her pillow, and saw the aged nightcapped head of 
old Caterina Garroni peering round the curtain. 

“Are you awake, ‘mees’?” she said, in a hoarse 
whisper. 

She was certainly a very unattractive-looking old 
woman, careless of her personal appearance, indif- 
ferent to cleanliness, but her fierce piety was a 
quality that could not be overlooked and compen- 
sated for much. She was also, as Ursula knew, pas- 
sionately solicitous for her two little grandchildren. 
Guido had long ago broken her heart. Once he had 
been a good boy, a good son, till that evil day when 
he had been induced to become a Freemason. A 
drunken frolic had enmeshed him in a life-long 


2i6 


URSULA FINCH 


slavery. No man in all Rome spoke so violently 
against the Church and its priests as he did. The 
one comfort of her declining years was her grandson, 
Mario, who seemed to have inherited all the beau- 
tiful piety and fervor of his dead mother. 

“Do you want anything?” said Ursula. Somehow 
the old woman’s appearance at this early hour gave 
her a sharp pang of anxiety. What had happened 
in the night? She had lain awake for hours, and she 
had heard no unusual movement in the flat. If 
Alda had been taken worse, surely they would have 
come to call her? 

“Alda is going to die,” said Caterina, “and Guido 
will let her die like a dog. The child was baptized, 
but he does not know it. A priest ought to come to 
anoint her. How are we to get one ?” She looked 
piteously at Ursula. 

“To die?” echoed Ursula, incredulously. “Is she 
so much worse?” 

She rose hurriedly and began to brush her hair. 

“I would go myself,” said the old woman, “but 
if Guido found out I had done it, he would put me 
into the street. And where should I go to?” Her 
ancient rheumy eyes shone with tears. 

She was very infirm now and could hardly hobble 
as far as the nearest church ; it was always an effort 
to her to go to Mass on Sundays. 

“I will go and fetch a priest,” said Ursula, begin- 
ning to dress. 

“You? And if they put you into the street? It 
would be worse for you, a stranger, a foreigner.” 

“I am not afraid,” said Ursula. 

“Of course she is in her first innocence, she will 
assuredly go to heaven. But she must have Extreme 
Unction — the Viaticum — who ever heard of a 
Catholic dying without those consolations? A cru- 
cifix in her hands, poor little lamb, and someone to 


URSULA FINCH 


217 


tell her that she is going to our blessed Lord, and 
that the Holy Madonna will gather her under her 
robe!” 

She sat down on a chair, and began to weep the 
pitiful senile tears of the aged. The great sobs 
made her thin bony body heave. She wore an un- 
clean grey wrapper, and her thick grey hair was awry 
under the nightcap. Like most Italian women her 
hair even in old age was beautifully thick with a 
kind of natural wave in it, but she had ceased to 
attend to it properly, or to give it the necessary 
brushing. She was too old, and her memory was 
growing weak. 

“I will go,” said Ursula again. 

She was fully dressed now, and she put on a small 
straw hat. 

“You must look after Rosina while I am out,” 
she told Caterina ; “you must on no account leave her 
alone. Promise me to stay with her.” 

“I will take care of her,” said the old woman. 
“Perhaps she will sleep till you come back.” 

Ursula crept very quietly to the front door. She 
slid back the two heavy bolts which secured it, 
opened it cautiously, and went down the five flights 
of stairs into the street below. Outside the autumn 
air was fresh and invigorating, almost as if there 
had been a touch of early frost in the night. The 
oleanders in the courtyard tossed back their rosy 
heads as the wind stirred them. In the lodge the 
ancient porter sat drinking his morning coffee; he 
greeted her with his usual Buon giorno, signorina, 
as she passed. She crossed the little piazza hur- 
riedly, and walked straight to the church where she 
had seen the Dominican on that evening after her 
illness. 

The six o’clock Mass had just begun. As she 
entered, the priest crossed over to the Gospel side of 


2i8 


URSULA FINCH 


the altar. Ursula knelt down in the shadows at the 
back of the church. Yes, it was true; they might 
throw her into the street, as Caterina had proph- 
esied. But she didn’t seem to mind. She had friends 
in Rome. Mother Lucia, for instance. The Eng- 
lish priest who had received her. They would help 
her to find something. But she hoped that Madame 
Garroni would at least let her stay until Alda died. 

Could it really be true that she was going to die ? 
Was it only perhaps Caterina’s anxiety that made her 
think so? The Sanctus bell rang. Ursula bowed 
her head. This was the moment of the priest’s 
Memento for the living. She found herself praying 
for all the Garroni family, for Mario, old Caterina, 
little Alda and Rosina, yes, and for Guido and his 
wife. Then for all at Pentarn, her father and 
mother. Daphne, Nicholas and Ruth, and — Hum- 
phrey Willmot. A bell rang sharply. Again she 
bowed her head, only looking up for a second when 
the priest elevated the Sacred Host above his head 
for all to see and worship. “My Lord and my God,” 
she whispered. Yes, that was what they had taught 
her to say, to repeat the magnificent profession of 
faith first uttered by St. Thomas. 

When Mass was over she went into the sacristy, 
and explained her errand to the priest in broken 
Italian. 

He shook his head. “I am afraid you must go 
to the Parroco,” he said, and told her the name of 
the parish church. “Of course, if you could not 
find him and it was very urgent I should be able to 
come.” 

Ursula hurried away. She felt now that perhaps 
she ought not to have stayed in this way to hear 
Mass; she ought to have found out at once that she 
had to go to another church. It was now nearly 
half an hour since she had left the flat, and perhaps 


URSULA FINCH 


219 


Rosina had awakened. Madame Garroni might 
also have discovered her absence, might be wonder- 
ing whither she had gone. Very soon Guido would 
be clamoring for his morning coffee ; he was always 
in a bad temper if he was kept waiting for it. She 
pictured the place in an uproar, while the poor little 
dying child lay there, indifferent, half conscious. 

The priest promised to come at once, and Ursula 
started off upon her homeward journey. She ran 
almost the whole way, and breathlessly climbed the 
five flights of stairs. The top flight was the worst 
of all, it went straight up without break or curve, 
and the steps were very steep. There were twenty 
of them — she had often counted them. Cautiously 
she opened the front door. The flat was still hushed 
in silence. There seemed to be no one stirring. In 
the passage-room little Rosina lay asleep, with old 
Caterina sitting somnolently in a chair by her side. 
Ursula took off her hat and went into the kitchen 
to prepare the coffee. 

Her heart was beating with excitement, and a cer- 
tain nervousness. As well as she could in her broken 
Italian she had explained to the priest the kind of 
reception he might meet with if Garroni chanced 
upon him. He had seemed quite undeterred. It 
was not the first time, nor would it be the last, that 
he would enter the house of a violent Freemason 
to administer the last Sacraments to the dying. Be- 
sides he knew Mario, and was already acquainted 
with the circumstances of the case. 

Ursula, as she set the water on to boil and put 
the breakfast ready with the quick and practised 
skill of a person to whom such tasks have become 
second nature, was saying to herself: “This is why 
I came here — this is why I came.” 


CHAPTER XXII 


T he front door bell rang. That must be the 
priest. How quickly he had come. Ursula 
went down the passage to admit him. He entered, 
and she heard the murmur of Latin words. She 
longed to know what he was saying. 

The nursery door was shut, and Ursula opened 
it quietly and looked in. The room was in partial 
darkness. Madame Garroni, fully dressed, sat in an 
armchair, fast asleep. She had evidently fallen 
asleep from exhaustion; her breathing sounded la- 
bored. Alda lay in her crib, tranquil, too weak to 
move. 

Ursula went up to her. 

“Alda, the priest has come to see you.” She kissed 
the child. 

Then she went out into the passage, praying that 
Madame Garroni might not awake till his mission 
was completed. She was a heavy sleeper. Ursula 
dreaded to think of the effect the priest’s presence 
would have upon her should she suddenly awake. 

Presently she heard footsteps. It must be Guido, 
disturbed perhaps by their faint movements. He 
would want his coffee, and then he would naturally 
go into the nursery to see his little daughter. Like 
all Italians he was devoted to his children, and 
would have spoiled and indulged them to the top of 
his bent had not his wife insisted upon adhering to 
her own more Spartan regime. They had had many 
quarrels on the subject, and sometimes Garroni 
had roughly restrained her from punishing Alda. 
He was very fond of Alda. She was such a thor- 
ough little Italian. Very like his own sister, Mario’s 
mother, who had died. 


22Q 


URSULA FINCH 


221 


He came out of his room, still unshaven, and 
blinking like an owl. 

^^Buon giornoy signorina” he said, sleepily. 

The doctor had given him a fright yesterday, but 
of course Alda was better this morning. Something 
in Ursula’s calm, almost cheerful, aspect, seemed to 
assure him that this was the case. Alda was quite a 
strong little thing really; all his family had good 
constitutions. Why, his own mother was still alive, 
and he a man of past sixty! She was eighty-four 
years old, and strong as a horse. Never suffered any 
ailment, except a touch of rheumatism in the winter. 

“Your coffee is quite ready,” said Ursula. “I 
will put it in the dining-room for you.” 

“I’ll go and have a look at the bamhina first.” 

He moved a step toward the nursery. Ursula’s 
heart stopped beating for one sickening second. If 
she could only prevail upon him to have his break- 
fast first! Her one fear was not that he should dis- 
cover the presence of the priest, but that he should 
interrupt him before his pious work was completed. 

“No, don’t go in. She was awake just now — 
she’s quite quiet; you can see her presently.” 

“Awake? Then she’s better — she’ll know me. 
She didn’t know me last night. I’ll go and kiss her.” 

Ursula made a swift movement and interposed her 
slim person between him and the nursery door. She 
must detain him. She must stave off the evil mo- 
ment, just a little longer. Afterward, it wouldn’t 
matter. 

“I really think it would be better for you not to 
disturb her,” she said. She steadied her voice, it 
sounded extraordinarily cool and composed. 

“I shall not disturb her. I’ll only put my head in 
just to see.” 

“You will make a noise in opening the door,” said 
Ursula, almost in desperation. 


222 


URSULA FINCH 


At any moment the priest might emerge. His 
task would surely soon be finished. She comforted 
herself with the thought. 

Garroni became suspicious and excited. 

‘‘Why, I do believe you’re hiding something from 
me, ‘mees I’ She is worse, perhaps, and you won’t 
tell me?” 

He raised his voice a little. Soon he would inev- 
itably awaken his wife. 

“No, I don’t think she is worse. At least it’s dif- 
ficult to tell. But it is very important to keep her 
quiet.” 

“Where is my wife?” demanded Guido. It was 
time Arabella came to despatch Miss Finch to her 
own room. How impertinent of her to interfere I 

“She is in the nursery — she was asleep just now.” 

“Asleep? But she mustn’t sleep like that! I 
thought she was watching Alda.” 

“I’m going in to help her in a moment.” Ursula 
stood with her back against the door in a resolute 
attitude. “Do, please, have your coffee first,” she 
pleaded. 

Garroni lost his temper. Anxiety had made him 
irritable, and he began to feel certain that Ursula 
was hiding something from him. Else why was she 
trying so forcibly to prevent him from entering the 
room? She had no right to interfere between a 
father and his child. He pushed her away with a 
sudden rough movement that almost overbalanced 
her. She saved herself from falling by clutching at 
the wall, but before she could recover from the at- 
tack he had opened the door and walked into the 
nursery. He left the door open, and Ursula gazed 
into the room with terror-stricken eyes. 

The priest was kneeling by the side of Alda’s 
crib. His lips moved in prayer. Madame Gar- 
roni, roughly aroused by the stir of her husband’s 


URSULA FINCH 


223 


entrance, sat up rubbing her eyes. She was not yet 
fully awake, and she regarded the priest with an 
expression of incredulity, as if he had formed part of 
a waking dream. Guido Garroni stood speechless 
in the middle of the room. The scene seemed to 
have temporarily hypnotized him. 

The priest rose from his knees. His face was 
calm and imperturbable, motionless as that of a 
statue in a museum. Madame Garroni was now 
fully awake. She had the absurd instinct of most 
suddenly awakened persons to declare that she had 
not really been asleep, and that she had heard and 
known all that was going on. When she saw the 
priest standing there close to the crib she seemed 
to realize that any such asseverations on her part 
would be useless. 

Alda’s eyes were open ; she was smiling in a quiet, 
remote fashion, as if her little spirit were already 
passing away from her weak body. In her small, 
shrunken hands she was clasping a crucifix. 

“ ‘Mees !’ ” she called, in a feeble, shrill voice, 
whose sound was not quite natural. 

Ursula approached the bed. She bent down to 
hear the words. 

“ ‘Mees,’ the dear Madonna is coming to fetch 
me. She will be kind to me; like you, she loves all 
little children. And I have received my first com- 
munion as you promised me once that I should.” 

Her voice trailed off, her lips were parted in a 
smile. 

Garroni had heard his child’s words. They 
taught him that she was going to die, and that she 
was fully aware of it. That scoundrel of a priest 
had no doubt been frightening her! Telling her 
lies perhaps about heaven and belli Yet, there was 
no sign of fear in little Alda’s face. Her eyes were 
full of a shining joy. It made him think almost that 


224 


URSULA FINCH 


she was eager to go, as a child is often eager for a 
great change to come to pass. 

The Madonna was coming to fetch her I So she 
was not ignorant after all of Catholic teaching. She 
wanted to leave them, to go out into the unknown. 
There had been a plot to fetch the priest. Whose 
doing was it? Not Mario’s; he hadn’t slept in the 
house last night. His mother? She was too infirm 
to go out so far. The English “mees” who had cer- 
tainly been very devoted to his children? She was 
a Protestant or he would never have had her in the 
house. Nevertheless, it was she who would have to 
explain the priest’s presence. She had known of it, 
for she had tried to keep him, Alda’s father, out of 
the room. For years Garroni had not spoken to a 
priest, had not found himself in the same room with 
one. The sight of this one made him suddenly feel 
guilty and conscience-stricken. Why did he stand 
there, his lips still moving in prayer? Why didn’t 
he go away? 

Garroni was passionately attached to his children. 
Especially he had loved little Alda with her en- 
chanting, graceful ways. His anger suddenly gave 
place to a violent outburst of grief. He flung him- 
self face downwards upon the bed, and burst into 
a paroxysm of sobbing. 

It was too late for him to disturb Alda with his 
tempestuous uncontrolled weeping. Already life was 
ebbing fast. Her breath came in little jerks. A 
faint sound issued from her throat. Ursula still 
held her hand. She had never seen death before; 
she had not thought it could be such an easy, such 
an almost beautiful thing. 

Suddenly the priest’s voice became audible in the 
room. De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine: D onl- 
ine exaudi vocem meant : Fiant aures tuae intend- 
entes, in vocem deprecationis meae. 


URSULA FINCH 


225 

The De Profundis — the psalm that is used for the 
dead. 

Ursula closed the baby eyelids. Madame Gar- 
roni stood by her side, amazed, speechless. It was 
not true I Alda was not dead. Why, a week ago 
she had been running about. It was all a mistake. 
The priest had frightened her, had hastened her 
death. 

Sustinuit anima mea in verho ejus: speravit anima 
mea in Domino, 

Presently the priest withdrew. Ursula followed 
him quietly out of the room. 

“Do you think he will refuse to allow her to have 
Catholic burial?” he asked Ursula. 

“He will oppose it, I know. And so will his wife; 
she will wish to have her buried as a Protestant. 
But Mario will come, he may have some influence.” 

“Tell him to come and see me,” said the priest. 

When he had gone Ursula went into the passage- 
room. Rosina was awake and had begun to cry for 
her breakfast. Old Caterina Garroni was trying 
in vain to soothe her. The children had always been 
a little afraid of their grandmother, and Rosina 
amid her sobs was screaming: “ ‘Mees!’ ‘MeesI* I 
want ‘mees I’ ” 

“It is all over,” she said to Caterina; “poor little 
Alda is dead. The priest was only just in time. She 
was anointed, she died quite peacefully. Her par- 
ents are with her now.” She took Rosina up in her 
arms and began to soothe her. 

She was sorry for the parents. They were, she 
knew, suffering terribly. In the old days she would 
have thought it cruel, almost wicked, to have op- 
posed them in the way she had done, especially at 
such a time. But her point of view had completely 
changed. She saw all things now from the Catholic 
standpoint. This little frozen body that so lately 


226 


URSULA FINCH 


had been Alda belonged to its Mother, the Church. 
It had had its inalienable right to go forth com- 
forted and consoled under that august protection, 
and now it could also claim the right to have the 
splendid majesty of the Mass enacted in its pres- 
ence. For the living and the dead. It must not be 
cheated of a single one of its prerogatives. This 
was a spiritual claim of far greater importance than 
any mere parental prejudice. 

She did not at present stop to think of the probable 
consequences of the morning’s events upon herself. 
Probably when they discovered the part she had 
played they would turn her into the street. Unless, 
perhaps, the sight of his dead child converted Guido. 
There was something terrible to Ursula in the sight 
of his rebellion. Once he had been a loyal subject 
of the Church. Once he had known her joys and 
consolations. But he had yielded himself to the 
Spirit of Evil. Again the words came back to her: 
For our wrestling is not against flesh and bloody but 
against principalities and powers, against the spirits 
of wickedness in the high places. The age-long war- 
fare of the Church militant ! Evil — the greatest per- 
haps of all mysteries — continually seeking its prey. 
Evil — the devourer of souls. And in the dreadful 
spectacle of Garroni’s spiritual downfall she seemed 
to see that evil, organized, imbued with a deadly en- 
ergy, a fatal unremitting activity. Organized against 
God, against His holy Church, fighting ceaselessly 
against God for the possession of the souls of men. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


M ario appeared during the morning in response 
to a message from Ursula. Without a word 
he proceeded to the darkened nursery, and knelt 
down beside the little crib where Alda lay. She 
looked very beautiful, a study in black and white 
with her pale sculptured face that might have been 
wrought of the finest marble; her thick black hair 
brushed off her forehead, her long, dark eyelashes. 
The expression on her face was less childlike than 
it had been in life ; it seemed to be informed with a 
new wisdom. 

Mario stooped over her and kissed the white fore- 
head, the frozen folded hands. So rapid had been 
her illness and death that it seemed to him now al- 
most incredible. They had not been really anxious 
about her until yesterday evening. And already the 
short chapter of her life was closed. She was an 
angel in heaven. She had died in her first innocence. 
He did not attempt to restrain his tears, for he had 
loved the child very tenderly. But she was safe. 
That was the great thing. She had been gathered 
under the robe of the Madonna. She was perhaps 
to-day among the Holy Innocents. 

Ursula had come in and knelt by his side. Both 
Garroni and his wife were resting after the emotion 
of the morning. She had not seen either of them 
since the departure of the priest. When she had 
returned to the nursery to offer her help they had 
refused to let her come into the room. 

When Mario rose from his knees she followed 
him out of the room. 

“I want to thank you,” he said. The tears stood 
in his eyes, and he spoke in a strangled tone. He 
227 


228 


URSULA FINCH 


was a little ashamed of his emotion in the presence 
of Ursula’s calm. “You acted very quickly, very 
bravely. We must think about her funeral. Have 
they done anything yet?” 

Ursula shook her head. “I haven’t seen them 
since quite early this morning.” 

“Of course, she must have Catholic burial. Will 
Guido allow it, do you think?” 

“He seemed very broken-hearted,” said Ursula. 

Mario’s face hardened. “He will oppose it, nev- 
ertheless,” he said. “I shall go and see the priest 
at once. I am thinking of you. Miss Finch. If you 
had to leave here — say quite suddenly at a moment’s 
notice — have you made any plans ? I mean is there 
any place that would receive you?” 

She understood his meaning. If she helped him 
the retribution would fall upon herself. She thought 
for an instant of the few lire she had put by. 
When Madame Garroni had grudgingly paid her on 
her return from the seaside, Ursula had sent nothing 
home. She had had to repay the porter’s wife for 
the milk and bread she had received when she was 
ill. There had not been much left when that was 
done. And if Daphne made this rich marriage 
surely she would be able to spare a few pounds from 
her dress allowance for the household at Pentarn. 

“I think I could go to the convent, to Mother 
Lucia, until I can find something else,” she said. 

His face brightened. “Yes, that’s a splendid idea. 
You’d be safe there. Then you will help me?” 

“But I am helping you,” she said. 

Ursula had lost her old timidity. She possessed 
more self-confidence and things had grown clearer 
to her. When the way was thus unmistakably indi- 
cated, she had no hesitation about following it. 

Mario made all the arrangements for a religious 
funeral. He sav/ the priest, and it was arranged 


URSULA FINCH 


229 


that there should be a Low Mass of requiem on the 
following morning at eight o’clock. The coffin would 
leave the house at half-past seven. A carriage was 
ordered, for Mario and Ursula both intended to go. 
Whether the parents would also accompany them 
was another matter. But Mario believed that Guido 
would be secretly thankful to have the arrangements 
taken out of his hands. He was too “fast bound in 
misery and iron” to be able to give his dead child 
the last tremendous privileges which the Church is 
able to bestow, but Mario believed that he would 
make no effort to oppose it. 

Guido and his wife went out that afternoon. 
Everyone knew they had gone to the Campo Santo 
to choose a last resting-place for their little girl. It 
was late when they returned, and Mario had been 
anxiously awaiting them. He went into the dark- 
ened salotto and switched on the electric light. Pres- 
ently Garroni and his wife came into the room. 

“Are you going to the funeral to-morrow?” said 
Mario. 

“Of course we are both going. We shall go direct 
to the Campo Santo.” 

“No,” said Mario with quiet decision, “we shall 
go first to the church. There will be a Low Mass 
of requiem — I have arranged it all with the priest 
who was here this morning. You know it does not 
take long; it will be over in half an hour. Then we 
shall go to Verano with the priest.” 

Guido sprang to his feet, and his eyes protruded. 

“You shall do nothing of the kind I You shall not 
interfere I What would my fellow-Masons say if 
they knew I had consented to such a thing? You 
forget my position; I might even lose my place in 
the firm. Besides poor little Alda was not baptized 
a Catholic; she was christened in the Protestant 
church.” 


230 


URSULA FINCH 


“I beg your pardon — she was baptized by the 
priest. She had made her confession, and on her 
death-bed she received her first communion. She 
has a right to be buried as a Catholic.” His voice 
was perfectly steady and very stern. 

“Whose doing was this? Yours and my mother’s 
I’ll be bound! Or have you got that English ‘mees’ 
on your side? I could see that you were falling in 
love with each other. I heard you had been seen 
talking together on the Pincio when the children 
were playing.” 

His voice was raised and almost shrill with pas- 
sion. 

“I think you are making a great fuss about noth- 
ing,” sobbed Madame Garroni, speaking for the 
first time. “Alda is dead, and what can it matter 
what becomes of a poor little dead body? It is hor- 
rible that you and Mario should quarrel over it like 
this. She could at least be buried like a Christian 
in the Protestant cemetery, and then Guido would 
not run the risk of quarreling with his firm.” 

It seemed to her an admirable compromise, a per- 
fect solution of the difficulty, offending no one except 
Mario and his old grandmother, neither of whom 
could be said to count. What right had they, big- 
oted and priest-ridden as they both were, to oppose 
the parents in this matter of the funeral? Hadn’t 
all the deceased members of her own family been 
buried as Protestants by clergymen of the Church 
of England, and who had ever been a penny the 
worse? But once let a priest come into the house, 
and nothing but bitter dissension was likely to follow. 

“Alda was not a Protestant. She had a right to 
buried with the rites of the Church to which she be- 
longed,” said Mario. 

“You are taking too much upon yourself, Mario,” 
said Madame Garroni, weary of the argument which 


VRSVLA FINCH 


231 


she considered almost indecent at such a moment. 
This was what came of marrying a foreigner, you 
were always up against different standards. “You 
have no right to interfere. Alda was our own dar- 
ling child, not yours, and you are responsible — you 
and your grandmother between you — for having has- 
tened her death by calling in that priest to tell her 
she was going to die. Of course she was frightened.” 

“I did not call in the priest. I was not in the 
house. You know that perfectly well.” 

“You must have told Miss Finch to do so then. 
I suppose, as Guido says, you have been making love 
to her, and that is how you have got her on your 
side.” 

He colored at the intentionally insulting tone. 

“I have done nothing of the kind.” 

“She is a clergyman’s daughter, and she knowl 
as well as I do that thousands of excellent people in 
England are buried every year as Protestants. It is 
the custom of our country. Our religion is as good 
as yours and has fewer errors I” 

Mario was silent. 

“Tell Miss Finch to come at once. I wish to speak 
to her,” said Garroni ; “I am determined to get to the 
bottoni of this. I am convinced that she arranged 
for the priest to come this morning. There was no 
^ne else to go, and she tried to prevent me from 
going into the nursery while he was there.” 

Madame Garroni stared at him in astonishment. 
Was it true? Had Marino secretly acquired an influ- 
ence over Ursula, so that if occasion arose she would 
be able to help him? 

“It’s impossible!” she ' exclaimed. “You must 
have made a mistake. She’s a clergyman’s daugh- 
ter. If it’s true of course she must leave us at once. 
But I should not have thought her capable of such 
deceit.” 


232 


URSULA FINCH 


She went to the door and called softly: “Miss 
Finch I Miss Finch!” 

Ursula appeared from the kitchen where she was 
engaged in cooking the dinner. She wore an apron 
over her dark dress. Her cheeks were flushed, from 
the heat of the fire. She was so tired and was feeling 
so unnerved and dispirited that she could hardly 
drag herself down the passage. 

When she entered the salotto and saw Mario and 
the Garronis all sitting there together in dead silence, 
she became aware that the crisis had come. 
Would they really send her away to-night? Already 
it was getting late. 

“We wish to speak to you,” said Madame Gar- 
roni, assuming an attitude of majestic sorrow; “we 
don’t wish to condemn you unheard. Is it true that 
you went out this morning and fetched a priest? I 
have just learned that my poor little baby had been 
forced to make a confession — a confession if you 
please — before she died.” 

Ursula was pale enough now. Her eyes shone 
brightly. 

“Yes, it is quite true that I fetched the priest,” 
she answered. 

Now that the moment had actually come, she did 
not feel at all afraid. 

A murmur of dismayed anger broke from her em- 
ployers. But Mario’s presence reassured her, al- 
though she knew that even without him she would 
not have felt too much afraid. She had done her 
duty; had fought her first little hard conflict for the 
Church. 

“What made you do this when you knew perfectly 
well it would be against my husband’s wishes as well 
as my own?” 

Ursula was silent. 


URSULA FINCH 


233 

“You had better explain your conduct,” growled 
Guido, in a threatening tone. 

“I am a Catholic,” said Ursula. “I sent for the 
priest because it was my duty to see that Alda did 
not die without one to give her the last rites of the 
Church.” 

“How long have you been a Roman Catholic?” 
inquired Madame Garroni. 

“About six weeks. I was received while you were 
away.” 

“Have you told your people?” 

“No, not yet.” 

“You were afraid, perhaps, of their displeasure?” 

“I am of age. I can do as I choose,” she an- 
swered 

“Supposing they refuse to receive you again? I 
knew a girl at Penzance to whom that happened. 
We regarded it as a just punishment!” Ursula was 
silent. Of course that was what would happen to 
her. When her father knew he would probably for- 
bid her to return home. 

She was thinking: “What has made people so 
prejudiced? Why can’t they learn a little about the 
Catholic Church, just enough to see how beautiful 
and holy it is?” Hadn’t she herself come abroad 
with her mind filled with all those ancient prejudices, 
that false teaching against the Catholic Church, those 
three-century-old outcries against Rome ? It seemed 
strange to live, as Madame Garroni did, in the 
heart of Christendom, and to remain so blind, so 
ignorant, so indifferent to that spiritual and mystical 
wealth that lay so close to her. 

“I am not going to allow you to remain here,” 
said Madame Garroni, with increased anger in her 
tone. “You have behaved in a sly, deceitful man- 
ner, and I don’t consider you a suitable person to 
have the care of a young child like Rosina. I under- 


234 


URSULA FINCH 


stand now why you were gaining latterly such an 
influence over poor little Alda. Once or twice since 
our return home she would hardly come to me when 
I called her!” 

Ursula thought that such reluctance could be fully 
accounted for on quite other grounds. 

“I think we must ask you to leave the house di- 
rectly after the funeral to-morrow. You have been 
paid up to the end of last month, and I consider that 
by your conduct you have forfeited any further 
wages that might have been owing to you I” 

“Aunt Arabella I” broke out Mario, in indigna- 
tion. 

“Be silent, if you please, Mario. This is my 
business, not yours.” 

Was he in love with her? Perhaps they were 
secretly engaged? Was it really true that they had 
met each other on the Pincio when Miss Finch had 
taken the children there for a walk? Madame Gar- 
roni had her own reasons for not wishing to quarrel 
with Mario, for he paid half the rent of the flat, be- 
sides contributing liberally toward his board when- 
ever he stayed there. He had inherited a little 
money from his father, and was in receipt of good 
pay. 

“Miss Finch can always appeal to the Questura 
if you refuse to pay her,” he said. 

Madame Garroni had all an Englishwoman’s in- 
stinctive dread of the law, whether it was repre- 
sented by the police or by a court of justice. To her 
there was little to choose between criminal and legal 
procedure. Both the one and the other involved an 
amount of publicity that was very painful to people 
who, as the saying goes, kept themselves to them- 
selves. If Ursula showed any disposition to make a 
fuss about payment she secretly resolved to give her 
all that she was entitled to. But she must go away. 


URSULA FINCH 


235 


She could not remain here. She would contaminate 
little Rosina. Madame Garroni began to feel that 
instead of punishing poor little Alda as she had 
rather often of late, she ought in reality to have 
blamed Ursula. She wished, now it was too late, 
that she had shown Alda less severity. People 
might withhold their sympathy from her at a time 
when she was really urgently in need of it. She had 
talked openly among her friends about Alda’s fits 
of naughtiness, of the necessity of punishing her. 
“Disobedient about quite little things — she wouldn’t 
always come when I called her. She would scream 
and shriek, and I couldn’t allow that to go on.” She 
could hear her own voice saying the words. People 
would remember it now that Alda was dead. They 
would say perhaps: “It won’t break her heart, she 
never really cared about her. Look at the way she 
was always whipping her for quite little things.” She 
couldn’t pose as she would now have wished to pose 
as a bereaved broken-hearted mother. And it was 
quite clearly Miss Finch’s fault. She had acquired 
a most sinister influence over the poor little thing; 
it had been particularly noticeable since their return. 
She wished that she had known sooner that poor 
little Alda wasn’t to blame. But she would run no 
risks with Rosina. 

“I will go away to-morrow if you wish,” said 
Ursula, proudly. 

Her work here was finished. She had done what 
she had come hither to do. And even if she stayed 
she would never be allowed to instruct Rosina as she 
had instructed Alda. She would be watched. Sud- 
denly, the future appeared to her cold and dark. 
She shrank before it as the homeless must naturally 
shrink when they are confronted without warning 
with their own roofless, penniless condition. She 
felt as if the wide world had no room for her, no 


URSULA FINCH 


236 

resting-place. Even the thought of Mother Lucia 
held little comfort. She couldn’t live on the charity 
of the nuns. 

Even if she had the money to go home, it was 
extremely doubtful if they would receive her again 
at Pentarn. She had done what was for them the one 
unforgivable thing, worse than Nicholas’ running 
into debt, worse than the perpetual anxiety Daphne’s 
extravagance had reduced them to. 

She was far away now from the little Roman 
salotto with its stiff, ugly furniture. She was back 
in thought at Pentarn. She saw the grey, oblong- 
shyDed rectory standing on the stark summit of the 
cliff, with the few sparse wind-distorted trees strug- 
gling to protect it. She saw the Cornish woods in 
early summer, with the flames of countless rhodo- 
dendrons lending a fiery color to the scene. She 
saw suddenly a bank of rose-colored valerian that 
every year had been a glory of brightness on the way 
to the Abbey. And the close-growing, sturdy hedges 
of veronica with their stiff small purple plumes. And 
the ever-beautiful blue mystery of the Atlantic, with 
the blunt summit of the Island cutting its line in two. 
The thought of it all, coming just then when the fu- 
ture was shrouded with uncertainty, stirred her to a 
sudden sense of homesickness, almost too great to 
be borne. She wanted desperately to go home, to 
see friendly familiar faces round her, to hear kindly 
words. 

If they would only let her go back she would cook 
and sweep and scrub for them as she had never done 
before. But they would never let her do so, when 
once they had learned she was a Catholic. She had 
cut herself off, irrevocably. 

“If it were not for the funeral you should go to- 
night, Miss Finch. I intend to write to your 
mother to tell her how deceitful and untrustworthy 


URSULA FINCH 


237 


I have found you. You came between me and my 
child.” 

Madame Garroni had said it now; she had voiced 
the real reason of her sudden hostility. She could 
never forgive Ursula. She could hear Alda’s shriek 
of “‘MeesI’ ‘MeesI’” when she herself had ap- 
proached her. Once she had dragged Alda forcibly 
from Ursula’s arms. 

Guido had remained for some time in complete 
silence, but in spite of his silence he had listened 
attentively to the conversation that had been taking 
place between his wife and Ursula. And as he 
listened his anger deepened. He was the grandson 
of a Sicilian woman, and the hot blood of Southern 
peoples ran in his veins. This white-faced girl had 
had the impertinence to oppose him — she who was 
little more than a servant in his house ! It was she 
who had done all the mischief! Doubtless she had 
been persuaded to do it by his mother and Mario, 
but, in any case, she had lent herself to their in- 
trigues. He would be accused of inconsistency for 
having a girl who was a Catholic convert to look 
after his children; and what would be said of him if 
in addition to this he accorded his child Catholic 
burial? Enslaved as he was, inextricably entangled 
by those tyrannical forces to which he had submitted, 
he saw the perilous position in which he was now 
placed. Everyone would know of the priest’s visit 
to the house that morning. He had come in and 
gone away again quite openly. Alda had died as the 
child of strict Catholic parents might have died. He 
had heard those broken phrases uttered to Ursula, 
evincing a piety that was strong and hereditary 
within her. He had tried to stamp these things out 
of his home, but they were too strong for him. He 
remembered the crucifix he had seen in her tiny 
hands; he had not dared remove it. It was still 


URSULA FINCH 


238 

there, for the little frozen fingers had clasped it 
tightly. He had looked upon that symbol with hor- 
ror. For a second it had seemed to reproach him, 
had brought back to his mind the unforgettable les- 
sons he had received in his boyhood. 

He would never forgive Ursula for being the 
means of bringing disgrace — as he termed it — upon 
his house. He would make an example of her. Peo- 
ple should say, “Yes, it was the English governess’ 
doing, he couldn’t help himself. But he packed 
her off the moment he found out that she was se- 
cretly a Catholic!” 

He sprang to his feet, and his dark face was 
swollen and purple with rage. 

“You shall not stay here another hour!” he 
shouted furiously. He made a step toward her as 
if he intended to fling her out of the house there and 
then. “You shall leave my house this very night! 
Do you hear?” He was so angry that he could 
hardly articulate. “Take your trunk and go !” 

Ursula had in the old days always been rendered 
a coward by anger. But to-night she scarcely felt 
any fear. 

“Yes, that is far the best plan,” said Madame 
Garroni. “Let her go away at once. I wish I had 
never brought her back with me. All that expense 
for such a short time. And to have my own child 
so influenced that she would hardly come near me. 
That is the worst of engaging people you know little 
or nothing about!” 

“She has no place to go to,” said Mario. “You 
can’t turn her like a dog into the street so late. 
Why, it’s nearly nine o’clock.” 

Madame Garroni paid no attention to him. She 
turned majestically to Ursula. 

“I think you heard what my husband said. Miss 
Finch?” She pointed to the door. “You will leave 


URSULA FINCH 


239 


the house the moment your trunk is packed ; and don’t 
ever dare to come back. As for a character, you will 
have to go elsewhere for that.” 

“Yes, if she dares show her face here again I’ll 
set the police on her track,” stormed Garroni. 

Ursula went out of the room. She held her head 
high; she was not going to show these people that 
she was wounded by their insults. Mario followed 
her. 

“Where shall you go, ‘Mees’? It will be so late 
by the time you are ready.” 

“I shall go to Mother Lucia. I know she will 
take me in.” 

“Would you like me to come with you?” 

Ursula shook her head. 

“No, you had better stay here. You have to-mor- 
row, and the funeral to think of. Besides I shall be 
quite all right alone.” 

Ursula hastily packed her trunk. She wanted to 
go into the nursery to have one more look at the 
little dead child who had passed beyond all the diffi- 
culties and complications of life, an angel in its first 
innocence, but the door was locked. When she was 
ready she found Mario still standing in the hall, 
waiting for her. He carried her trunk downstairs 
for her, Ursula following with a little bag. It was 
the scantiness and poverty of her luggage that 
struck him so forcibly. Yet he had always known 
that she was very poor; she had had scarcely any 
money while his aunt was away. Not enough to 
pay for sufficient food. His anxiety was by no 
means allayed by her brave, bright look. She didn’t 
know perhaps the difficulties that lay in front of her. 
Of course, the nuns would be kind, and she was in 
a very true sense suffering for her faith. But the 
future seemed indeterminate, obscure. 


240 URSULA FINCH 

He fetched a cab for her. “Where shall I tell 
the man to go?” 

His kindliness and help touched her, and made the 
tears come into her eyes. 

“To the convent, please,” said Ursula. 

She drove away through the brilliantly lit autumn 
streets of Rome. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


U rsula was unacquainted with conventual hours 
and habits, and she had not realized that at 
nearly ten o’clock at night the big grim portone 
would be closed across the outer entrance to the 
convent, and that no porter would be on the watch 
for tardy visitors. She pulled the bell, at first tim- 
idly, and then again with more courage. There was 
no reply, and a third ring, more desperate than the 
two former, produced no more favorable results. It 
occurred to her then for the first time that the lay- 
Sisters had probably gone to bed. No provision was 
made for anyone calling so late; the Sisters only 
stayed up if some one were definitely expected. 

All was dark within. There was no sign of life. 
With a courage born of desperation Ursula pulled 
the bell for the fourth time. 

She could hear the reverberation of its hollow 
twang beating through the emptiness of the house, 
echoing down the bare passages, and through the 
carpetless rooms. A door on the right of the con- 
vent was pulled open, and a man’s sleepy head was 
pushed forth. 

“I am the concierge of the convent,” he said, in 
rapid Italian; “it is too late for you to go there now. 
The door shuts at half-past seven and the nuns do 
not see anyone afterward. Come back to-morrow 
morning.” 

He shut the door again, impatient probably at 
being aroused from his slumbers. 

iJrsula’s heart sank. She stood there in the nar- 
row street, wondering what she should do next. She 
had very little money, for Madame Garroni had paid 
her nothing before she left, thinking it extremely im- 
241 


242 


URSULA FINCH 


probable that Ursula would have recourse to the 
Questura to obtain what was owing to her. 

What she had in her purse would, she hoped, be 
sufficient to pay for the cab and for a night’s lodging 
somewhere. But where was she to go? Hotels 
were expensive, were indeed out of the question. 
She knew little about the pensions of Rome. Fear 
came over her for the first time. She had never 
been alone, quite alone, like this before. Not know- 
ing where to go. In a city, too, that was still strange 
to her, so circumscribed had been her experience 
of it. 

She stood there irresolutely. Overhead the sky 
was darkly blue, with the soft dusk of the South. It 
was sown brilliantly with stars, and as she looked 
up at them she was struck afresh by the wonderful 
groups they formed, the delicate patterns and shapes 
they delineated, drawn in diamond-like points of 
light. Then suddenly she thought of little Alda. 
The child had been very dear to her. Lately, even 
before her illness, she had sat up far into the night 
with her, soothing her, comforting her, telling her 
of our blessed Lord and His dear Mother, who 
loved all little children for His sake. Lessons that 
had helped the child to die, willingly, even gladly. 
What a long time ago her death seemed. Only this 
morning, and yet the day had been so full of sharp 
dramatic moments and crises that it seemed as if it 
had all happened centuries ago. 

The cabman at this point briefly indicated his in- 
ability and also his passionate disinclination to re- 
main there all night, or even for a moment longer. 

“I don’t know where to go,” said Ursula, desper- 
ately. “Do you know of anyone who has a furnished 
room to let?” 

He shook his head. Rome was, he knew, full at 
the time. And he did not see himself driving round 


URSULA FINCH 


243 

the city with a person who was obviously unable to 
make such an expedition worth his while. 

“You’d better go to a hotel,” he said. “It’s 
easier to get into one. You’ll find other people 
won’t care to take you in so late.” 

“A pension — ” suggested Ursula feebly. 

“No, no; it’s nearly half-past ten. You must go 
where there’s a night porter.” 

“Very well. Take me, please, to a quiet small 
one. Not too dear.” 

She got into the cab again, and it clattered noisily 
over the cobbled streets of Rome, darting down in- 
credibly narrow and crooked by-ways where it 
seemed as if there would never be space for it to 
pass. They came suddenly upon the Fountain of 
Trevi, looking splendid in the starlight. The pale, 
colossal figures looked enormous, and the great rush 
of water glimmered luminously in the dusk. There 
were lights there that illuminated the night, lights 
from the street-lamps, from the tall surrounding 
houses. A cool fresh wind blew into her face from 
across the fountain. Then they drove on. 

Presently they stopped before a lighted entrance, 
in a busy street, where the trams were still going 
up and down, ringing their bells and cleaving the 
night with the ugly squeaking sound of their brakes. 
A motor was standing there, and two women in eve- 
ning dress, with superb cloaks and large shawl-like 
fur stoles, emerged and went up the steps into the 
hotel, followed by a man. Ursula caught a glimpse 
of their uncovered dark heads. 

One of the women turned, as Ursula descended 
from the cab, and went up the steps. She saw her 
face; it was one of those small, delicately drawn 
Italian ones, lit by dark eyes that were very beau- 
tiful. 

For a moment Ursula stood there hesitatingly, a 


244 


URSULA FINCH 


shabby figure that looked out of place in the gar- 
ishly decorated hotel vestibule. Then she went up 
to the concierge. 

“Could — could I have a room here to-night, 
please?” she said. 

The man, fair, Swiss-looking, stared at her with 
ill-bred astonishment. She did not resemble their 
usual clientele in appearance. 

“You can ask in the bureau. The manager is 
there. But I think the rooms are all occupied.” 

Ursula went across to the bureau in the direction 
indicated. She was feeling very tired now, and dis- 
pirited. The emotions of the day had exhausted 
her. She had a dreadful fear that she would soon 
burst into tears. Supposing all the rooms were, as 
he had suggested, full? Supposing there were no 
place for her? She would have to go back into the 
street, to the already impatient cabman, and con- 
tinue her search. She saw herself going from hotel 
to hotel, pleading for admittance. They would look 
at her shabby dress, her scant luggage, and ask 
themselves what she was doing, alone and friendless, 
in Rome at night. Perhaps, they would think she 
was escaping. She choked back a sob. Why had 
she not let Mario accompany her? 

“I am very sorry; but we have no room — no 
room at all,” said the glib voice of the manager, 
speaking like his colleague the concierge, with a 
strong German-Swiss accent. “We are quite — quite 
full,” and he looked at her with a glance in which 
she read contempt. Contempt, perhaps, for her 
shabby clothes, her meek, timid manner. 

Ursula turned away. In the sharp, white glare 
of the electric light she looked deathly pale. She 
stumbled a little. She must go back and tell the 
cabman she had been unsuccessful, and beg to be 
taken elsewhere. Perhaps he would refuse, already 


URSULA FINCH 


245 


he had given her to understand that she had de- 
tained him long enough. Then a voice that in its 
music, its familiar unforgotten magic, might have 
emanated from another sphere, struck across the 
silence. 

“Kindly find a room for this lady at once. I know 
her — she is a friend of mine.” 

The manager’s face was a study in rapid transfor- 
mation. His scarcely veiled insolence gave place 
first to consternation and dismay, then to obsequious 
apology. Another moment, and he was reduced to 
abject humility. 

“Pardon, monsieur. But monsieur knows the 
lateness of the hour, we have to be careful. But we 
would do anything to oblige an old client like your- 
self.” 

Ursula looked up into Humphrey Willmot’s face. 
It did not even now seem strange to her that he 
should be there. Perhaps God had sent him. God 
had taken pity on her because she had suffered to- 
day for the first time in His service. Alda was dead, 
and she was homeless. The world was in ruins 
at her feet. And out of the ruins there had stepped 
Humphrey Willmot. 

“Don’t move. Miss Finch.” He had dragged a 
chair toward her. “I’ll pay your cab and see that 
they bring in your trunk. When I saw you get out 
just now I felt almost certain it was you.” 

She sat down, white, shaking, but so relieved that 
she felt she would have been content to die. Hum- 
phrey vanished for an instant, but speedily returned. 

“Now show this lady up into her room. A small 
one, nothing expensive,” he said, in a peremptory 
tone. 

It was wonderful how quickly everyone obeyed 
him. Presently Ursula found herself in the elevator 
with him. They ascended story after story. At last 


246 


URSULA FINCH 


the car stopped, and they followed the manager 
down a long heated passage. He paused before a 
door at the end of it. 

‘‘I regret it is the only room we have unoccupied. 
It is very small.” 

“It will do perfectly,” said Humphrey shortly. 
“Send the lady’s trunk up at once, if you please.” 

They stood there, facing each other, waiting for 
the trunk to be brought. Then Humphrey made her 
sit down, he could see that she was tired and over- 
strained. Something had happened. He wished 
that she would tell him what it was. 

“Poor Ursula,” he said gently; “you know I al- 
ways think of you as Ursula 1” 

His voice was tender, but it held, too, something 
of its old whimsical ironical quality. 

“I don’t know how to thank you,” said Ursula, 
dully. She had a foolish, insensate, but quite defined 
longing to kneel at his feet. 

“Then don’t try to, please. To-morrow we’ll 
have a long talk ; and you shall tell me all that’s hap- 
pened to you since you left Pentarn.” Yes, there was 
a sto^ behind it all, and he wanted badly to know 
it. “Did you ever get a letter from me?” 

“Oh, yes, thank you. It — it came just after I’d 
been very ill.” 

“Why didn’t you write?” 

“I — I didn’t want you to know that I wasn’t 
happy. I should have been obliged to say. You 
asked me to tell you.” 

He took her hand and held it lightly, caressingly, 
in his. 

“Were you very unhappy?” he asked, and now 
his blue-grey eyes were fixed upon her face with a 
very strange expression in them, an expression she 
was wholly unable to analyze. Yet there was some- 


URSULA FINCH 


247 

thing in his face then that made her heart give a wild 
throb. 

“Yes,” she admitted, almost reluctantly. 

“And the books?” he said. “Did you ever get 
them?” 

She shook her head. “No, they never reached 
me. 

“Never mind. I’ll send you some more.” 

Two men brought Ursula’s trunk into the room. 
She was almost ashamed that Humphrey should see 
how small and shabby it was. He would guess, per- 
haps, that it contained all her worldly belongings. 

“Well, I suppose I must say good-night,” he said 
cheerily; demain then.” 

“Good-night,” said Ursula. “And thank you 
very much. I am more grateful — ” She stopped. 
She was afraid of losing her self-control, of breaking 
down before him. 

“Dear Miss Finch, I’ve done simply nothing 
at all I” 

He turned away and left her, with that abrupt- 
ness that she always remembered. Once it had 
hurt her, but she understood now that it did not 
in the least mean that he was bored. She had al- 
most thought to-night that he had gone away in 
order to avoid saying something that he did not wish 
to say — something that perhaps clamored to be said. 

When his footsteps had died away down the pass- 
age Ursula sank into the armchair, and put her 
hands up to her face to shield her eyes from the 
glare of the electric light. Her thoughts were so 
confused that she felt unable to concentrate them 
upon any single event of the day. There had been 
Alda’s death, and that hurried journey of hers to 
fetch a priest before the child died. The anger of 
her employers, especially the furious anger of 
Guido, that held in it something of the rage of a 


248 


URSULA FINCH 


thwarted man. Their careless flinging of her out 
of doors at night. She saw herself standing hope- 
lessly in the starlight outside the closed convent 
door, listening to the bell as it clanged eerily all 
through the silent house. Now she was listening to 
the careless insolence of the manager, telling her 
there was no room. And then across the bewilder- 
ing darkness that seemed to be closing about her, she 
heard Humphrey Willmot’s voice ring out like sud- 
den music. She had not realized till then the long 
hunger of her heart for sight of him. She had so 
resolutely put all thought of him from her since she 
had left Pentarn, knowing that such thoughts could 
only weaken her, unfit her for the grim conflict of 
life. She had honestly tried to forget him. To think 
of him could only bring pain. And then to-night 
when her need was greatest he had stepped out of 
the shadows to help her, wise, friendly, kind, and 
even, as she believed, a little compassionate. Yes, 
he had seemed to-night more than ever wonderful, 
though remoter from her own sphere than one of 
those brightly shining stars. 


CHAPTER XXV 


U liSULA^s night was short and disturbed, with rest- 
less dreams in which she imagined herself to be 
wandering alone along the Tiber, with all the doors 
of Rome shut against her. Qnce or twice she 
dreamed that Mario and Humphrey passed her in 
the darkness without recognizing her, and that when 
she opened her lips to call to them no sound came, 
and they vanished into the shadows. She awoke 
at last with a start, and looked at her watch. It was 
six o’clock. Time to get up. The Requiem Mass 
for little Alda was to be at eight, and first she must 
pack her things and leave the hotel. She rose, 
dressed herself, and went downstairs. Several peo- 
ple were about, preparing to catch an early train. A 
sleepy porter carried her trunk downstairs. She went 
to the bureau and asked for her bill. It was exorbi- 
tant, and she knew it; probably they had imagined 
that Humphrey — the length of whose purse was 
well-known in the hotel — would pay it. She remem- 
bered with a start that he must have paid the cab 
for her last night ; she had forgotten about it in the 
confusion and emotion of the moment. A cab was 
called and she drove to the convent. This time the 
concierge took in her trunk, but he explained the 
Sisters were all at Mass. It was too early for her to 
see any of the nuns; they would be in church until 
eight o’clock. She told the man she would return 
later if she might leave her trunk there. He con- 
sented, and then Ursula walked away. 

She had not eaten for many hours, and she felt 
a little weak and faint from her long fast. Still she 
walked on, and at last arrived at the church. Mario 
was already there, and the little coffin had been car- 
ried in and placed upon the high catafalque. Soon 
the priest entered and began the Mass. There were 
249 


250 


URSULA FINCH 


no mourners present except herself and Mario. Old 
Caterina Garroni had been too ill to come, and the 
parents had driven straight to the Campo Santo to 
await the arrival of the funeral cortege. Presently 
Ursula and Mario knelt down side by side at the 
altar-rail to receive holy communion. When Mass 
was over and the corpse had been sprinkled with 
holy water and incense and the last absolution had 
been given, the coffin was borne out again. Mario 
alone with the priest followed it to the cemetery. 

Ursula went into a shop that was close at hand 
and ordered some coffee and a roll. She was almost 
famished, for she had eaten very little during the 
past twenty-four hours. She felt a little light-headed, 
as she had done during her illness. But the food re- 
stored her, and she was able to walk back to the con- 
vent. 

Mother Lucia received her very kindly. “But, of 
course, you must stay here, my dear child, until you 
are quite rested and have found another situation,” 
she said, kissing her. “You shall have your old 
room; I will go and tell them to get it ready for you. 
Have you had anything to eat?” 

“Yes, thank you,” said Ursula. She followed the 
nun upstairs. 

Yes, she was safe here. Even Humphrey could 
never find her. She felt that she could not bear to 
see him again. When he came down to-day he would 
perhaps inquire for her, only to find that she had 
vanished, leaving no trace of her whereabouts. It 
never occurred to Ursula that he could possibly suffer 
any anxiety on her account. Such a contingency as 
that would have been beyond her wildest imagining. 
She did not want to be a trouble to him, nor could 
she accept any more help from his hands. She did 
not wish to reveal to him the precise measure of her 
failure, her unsuccess, her present poverty. 


URSULA FINCH 251 

As she thought of him, standing there in front of 
her as he had done last night, his blue-grey eyes 
resting upon her with a strange expression in them 
that she did not dare to try and analyze, the tears 
began to gather. She loved him. She had loved 
him all the time. It was only by a powerful effort 
of will that she had managed to banish him all 
these months from her thoughts. She loved him, as 
surely she could never love any one else, however 
long her life might be. But she did not want to 
think of him. She tried to turn her thoughts to 
little Alda. Yes, they must be there now, the Gar- 
ronis and Mario, standing by an open grave on that 
beautiful hillside outside the gates of Rome, among 
the cypresses on this exquisite autumn morning, 
watching the little coffin being lowered into its grave. 
Yet, she felt scarcely any grief now at Alda’s death. 
She had loved the little thing tenderly, but the child 
had died in her baptismal innocence; she was an 
angel in heaven to-day. If she had lived she might 
have lost, in those godless surroundings, the shining 
jewel of faith. She was safe to-day, splendidly safe. 

In the afternoon she was sent for to come down- 
stairs; a visitor had called to see her. She went 
down to the parlor near the entrance and found, as 
she expected, Mario sitting there. He rose as she 
came in. 

First he told her about the funeral. It had been 
very painful there, in the Campo Santo, to see Gar- 
roni and his wife, the former angry and rebellious, 
the latter weeping bitterly. Neither of them had 
addressed a single word to him, and they had driven 
straight home after the ceremony. Mario had not 
since been back to the house. He dreaded seeing 
them under the circumstances, and he had arranged 
to stay with a friend for a few days. 

Abruptly then he began to question her about her 


252 URSULA FINCH 

doings since she had left the flat on the preceding 
night. 

“You had no difiiculty, I hope, about getting a 
room here?’’ he said. 

She found she had a curious dislike to speaking of 
the events of last night to Mario. 

“Yes, I could not get in. The door was shut,” 
she said. 

“Shut? Do you mean you couldn’t stay here?” 

“Yes — I had to go to a hotel for the night.” 

“Without trouble — without difiiculty? I mean, 
had you enough ?” 

She hesitated. “At first it wasn’t easy. They 
said there was no room. But I met a friend.” 

“I did not know you had any friends in Rome,” 
said Mario. His curiosity was strongly aroused. 
“Who was this friend?” 

“He is an Englishman. I knew him at Pentarn — 
my home in Cornwall. He was very kind; he told 
the manager to find a room for me at once. He 
insisted.” 

Mario felt a sharp twinge of jealousy. 

“You were glad to see him again?” he said, with 
a sullen look in his dark eyes. Why had he not gone 
with her? Why had he not been there to proffer his 
assistance? 

“I was very glad of his help,” said Ursula, 
evasively. 

“You will see him again?” 

“No, I don’t think so.” Mario’s close question- 
ing was getting a little on her nerves. She wondered 
why he should care to know so many little unim- 
portant details. “I left the hotel very early — I did 
not give them any address. And, of course, I did 
not see him again this morning.” 

Mario looked mollified. “You made me jealous,” 
he said suddenly; “is not that absurd?” 


URSULA FINCH 


253 


“Very absurd,” said Ursula, smiling. 

There was a pause which Mario broke abruptly 
by saying: 

“I wish I could tell you what I felt like after you 
had gone away last night. You looked so young, 
so helpless, so forlorn. If Rosina had been turned 
out of doors she could hardly have looked more 
helpless. I was angry with my uncle and aunt. We 
had a scene, and I told them they had behaved dis- 
gracefully — that I hoped you would go to the 
Questura. I think the idea frightened them a little. 
My aunt said, ‘If she applies to me for her money 
she shall have it.’ I said, ‘What about to-night? 
What will she do to-night? You know she has noth- 
ing. When you went to the seaside you left her 
here to starve. She was ill and penniless and alone.’ 
She did not answer a word — she could not.” 

Ursula did not speak. Something vehement in 
his tone startled her. He put out his hand and took 
hers, holding it as in a vice so that she could not 
release it. 

“Look here,” he said passionately, “I have 
learned to-day what I never knew before and that is 
that I love you, Ursula. You are beautiful and 
good, you have great courage. I have seen your 
tenderness with Alda and Rosina. The children 
loved you. I was afraid at first, because you were 
a Protestant. I used to think, ‘Whatever she teaches 
those children she can never teach them the truths 
of our holy religion.’ But God sent you the gift 
of faith, the one thing needful. I want you to marry 
me — I love you.” 

His dark and brilliant eyes searched her face, as 
if to win some response from her. 

“No— no — ” said Ursula. She released her 
hand from his grip. “I mean — I couldn’t marry 
you. We have been great friends, I shall never for- 


254 


URSULA FINCH 


get your kindness. Without you I have sornetimes 
felt that I could not go on. You mustn’t think me 
ungrateful now.” 

“It is this Englishman you love?” he demanded, 
remorselessly. 

“How can I love him?” She evaded the direct 
answer. “I have only seen him a few times in my 
life. He just happened to be there last night.” 

“I am certain that you love him. Just now when 
you spoke of him the very tone of your voice 
changed, the look in your eyes. It was that which 
made me jealous, which taught me that I love you. 
But perhaps he doesn’t love you, and when he goes 
away you will think of me.” 

“He certainly does not love me,” said Ursula, 
and her throat seemed to close on the words. “But 
it would be cruel not to tell you the truth. His 
going or coming will make no difference. I shall 
never think of you like that — only as a friend, a 
true kind friend, who helped me a great deal when — 
when things were difficult.” 

“And who would help you again, whenever you 
will let him. Always believe that, Ursula.” 

If she had never known love, the first sweet fer- 
vors of it thrilling across her utter unconsciousness, 
a thing that transformed the whole world so that it 
could never look the same again, she might have 
mistaken her sisterly liking for Mario for a deeper 
sentiment. Many women have married, and mar- 
ried happily, under a delusion of the kind. But she 
swiftly compared her own feeling for him with that 
which Humphrey’s least word was able to evoke, 
and she saw that they were as different in degree as 
sunlight and moonlight. 

Mario was silent now, and his young handsome 
face was wrapped in a deep and profound gloom. 
He did not quite believe Ursula when she gave him 


URSULA FINCH 


255 


to understand that she did not love this unknown 
man, and he felt that there must be a deeper attach- 
ment than she would acknowledge between herself 
and him. Confused, jealous, distrustful thoughts 
crowded his mind. Had she gone to that particular 
hotel, when the convent failed her, because she was 
aware of his presence there? Had she been seeing 
him all these weeks, in those rare moments of leisure 
she was able to snatch from her arduous, strenuous 
duties? Perhaps his very presence in Rome had 
been the secret source and spring of her so great 
courage, as well as of her calm acquiescence when 
Garroni in his anger had almost flung her out of his 
house. He could not believe it; he had always felt 
that the secret source of her strength had lain in 
those spiritual things which had laid violent hands 
about her since her coming to Rome. 

The very fact that this unknown man was of her 
own race and country seemed to add fresh fuel to the 
flame of Mario’s jealousy. For he felt keenly the 
barrier that must always exist between persons of 
different races ; it is something so strong that it can at 
times wound the most adoring love by its sense of 
peculiar separation. He had felt the difference be- 
tween his own outlook and Ursula’s ; he had felt the 
unlikeness that existed between her and the women 
of his own race. But it had not made him love her 
the less; it had in a sense added to her attraction, 
had endowed her with a touch of exquisite mystery. 

He loved her very much ; he swore to himself now 
that he would marry her, in defiance of Guido and 
Arabella who would oppose such a project with 
violence. He had a mad wish now to clasp her in 
his arms, to kiss her pale beautiful face. 

For she was beautiful, this girl from the North, 
whom his aunt had made the slave and drudge of 
the whole household. He could see her now bending 


URSULA FINCH 


256 

over Alda’s crib, looking like some pale Madonna, 
and in this attitude of wonderful watchful tender- 
ness he could behold in her the potential mother of 
children. She was so full of gentleness and solici- 
tude for others, yet she never seemed to think of 
herself at all, and she possessed, as he knew, an 
indomitable almost fiery courage. She had taught 
those two babies all she could of the old faith that 
to her was a new and wonderful revelation. It was 
undoubtedly through her influence that little Alda, 
the daughter of a renegade father, had been taught 
to die the death of a holy Catholic child, prayers on 
her lips, a crucifix in her hands. 

“Ursula, Ursula,” he said, with a break in his 
voice that sounded like a sob. 

“You mustn’t think of me, Mario. You know in 
your heart that I’m not the right wife for you. 
Marry some one of your own country. Those 
mixed marriages aren’t always happy, there’s so 
often something wanting, the perfect sympathy and 
understanding that some one of your own country 
can give you, almost unconsciously. Look at your 
uncle and aunt — he might have been so different if 
he had married a good Italian woman, and she would 
have been far happier living in a quiet unambitious 
way in Penzance.” 

“But ours wouldn’t be a marriage like that. Ours 
would be a Catholic marriage, blessed by the Church. 
We should bring up our children from the first as 
you brought up Alda.” 

She shook her head, not permitting herself to be- 
lieve that his words had touched her, and even 
weakened perhaps something of her determination. 

“We shouldn’t be happy. All the time you would 
know I wasn’t caring for you as I ought to care.” 

No, she could never content herself with a second- 
best, never be satisfied with less than that very per- 


URSULA FINCH 


257 


feet, illuminating sentiment she had had for Hum- 
phrey Willmot. It was something that had spoiled 
for her all lesser, weaker things. Even now he 
seemed to be standing near her, and his words 
uttered last night rang anew in her ears : — 

'Toor Ursula! You know I always think of you 
as Ursula** 

Pityingly, because he knew that her life, whether 
at Pentarn or in Rome, must necessarily be a hard 
and penurious one, so unlike his own. But even 
last night with the measure of her apparent failure 
looming before her with such gigantic emphasis, she 
had found herself wanting to cry out and tell him 
that he need never pity her quite so much again. 
She had something now that was worth more than 
all the riches of this world, something of immeasur- 
able, perdurable worth. And he would have under- 
stood; he knew too how precious were those spiritual 
things she had secured. Perhaps one day he too. . . . 

Mario could see that her thoughts were far away. 
They were not unhappy thoughts for her face wore 
a calm and serene look. For the present he believed 
that it would be useless for him to say more. He 
rose to go. 

“Good-by,” he said, “do not, please, leave Rome 
without telling me. I shall care very much to hear 
where you are, what you are doing. You must not 
go quite away without saying a word, although I 
know you have not much reason to think well of any 
of us after the way you have been treated.” 

“You must not say that,” she said quietly; “you, 
at least, have always been kind. I am very grateful 
to you. You have helped me.” 

She put her hand in his. Mario lifted it to his 
lips. Then he left her without another word. 

As he went away he said to himself. “But, of 
course^ I must see her again. She can’t be so cruel 


URSULA FINCH 


258 

as to refuse to see me. Perhaps I spoke too sud- 
denly to-day. But at least she knows now that I love 
her!” 

Once he had felt that a marriage with her would 
be for him a misalliance. She had been little more 
than a servant in his uncle’s house, doing hard 
menial tasks, cooking, scrubbing. But Englishwo- 
men were different, they saw nothing degrading in 
work. And her sister had just married, so Arabella 
had informed him, into the English nobility. He 
had been considerably surprised when he had heard 
the news, only a few days ago, just before Alda’s 
illness. There seemed such a wide gulf between 
Ursula, drudge of all work, and a sister who was the 
wife of a great and wealthy English milord. Why 
did her sister leave her thus in her poverty, suppos- 
ing the story were true? He felt that in Italy, if 
indeed such a situation had been conceivable at all, 
the rich sister’s first act would have been to release 
the poor one from servitude, and give her an apart- 
ment in her own palace where she would be free, and 
independent. 

His pride had suffered. Ursula had refused him, 
kindly, it must be said, but unhesitatingly. She had 
thought perhaps that he “wasn’t good enough,” that 
she might even make, as her sister had done, a bril- 
liant ambitious marriage. But no, he was misjudg- 
ing Ursula Finch, and he knew it. She was simple, 
unspoiled, pious, devoted to duty; she was utterly 
without worldly ambition. He admired her courage, 
the courage with which she had taught the children, 
fetched the priest, and borne herself in that critical 
hour of Garroni’s wrath. In her lived the selfsame 
spirit that had actuated the early Christians whose 
tombs were in the Catacombs. You could picture 
her under torture wearing a serene detached expres- 
sion, such as you can see on the faces of martyrs in 


URSULA FINCH 


259 


the old frescoes. A look of seeing beyond all that 
the world might hold for you of pain and obloquy. 
She might have been a St. Agnes or, better still, a 
St. Balbina. She had reminded him sometimes of 
Bernini’s statue of that young indomitable girl-saint. 

But he wanted her love. As he walked slowly 
away he became more and more aware of how 
greatly all his hopes and plans for the future had 
become centralized, so to speak, in his love for this 
girl with the small pale face and black hair, and 
dark serious eyes. Then the old jealousy stirred once 
more within him. Who was this friend of hers, 
this man she had known at Pentarn? How often 
had she seen him since she had been in Rome? Was 
it true that he didn’t love her? Had the knowledge 
of his presence there given her that aspect of interior 
contentment which he had always attributed to a 
spiritual origin? For the second time that day he 
gave way to these bitter, distrustful thoughts of her. 

But her face had changed so when she mentioned 
him! There had been that little trivial hesitation 
in her manner when she spoke of his having come to 
her assistance. And her eyes had shone like grey 
jewels under the black lashes that veiled them so. 
If this man were not blind and a fool he rtiust surely 
know how beautiful Ursula Finch was. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


U RSULA^S courage had not once failed her during 
the difficult twenty-four hours through which 
she had passed. She had had much to sustain her, 
and she had been aware, too, of a curious subdued 
excitement that in itself preserved her from despond- 
ency. But now that it was all over and she had time 
to think coldly of the future, she could not help 
feeling a profound anxiety that threatened to sap 
her courage. 

She had quietly fled from Humphrey, filled with 
the determination to conceal herself from him. He 
had shown himself ready, nay eager, to come to her 
assistance, and in his solicitude there had been a 
touch of friendliness that bordered upon tenderness 
and which had for one moment seemed to fill her 
heart with the sudden hope that he truly cared for 
her. But of course that was absurd. He had always 
liked her in a good-humored, friendly, whimsical 
fashion of his own. He would never care for her 
in any deeper way. But his presence was always 
wont to evoke those wild unfounded hopes that 
shone brightly when he was there, and afterward 
weakened her when she had most need of strength. 
She saw the folly of indulging in such idle dreams, 
and yet to be with him for ten minutes, as she had 
been last night, had undone all her careful work of 
the past months when she had striven so resolutely 
to forget him, not to think of him. 

It seemed so long ago now since she had heard 
the door of the Garronis’ apartment shut upon her 
last night. It was something that had happened to 
her in another life. Madame Garroni would per- 
haps write and tell Mrs. Burton of the reason of 
260 


URSULA FINCH 


261 


her abrupt dismissal. And inevitably they would 
hear about it at Pentarn. They would feel the dis- 
grace Very keenly. She had not thought of that 
aspect of the case before. A daughter of theirs to 
become a Catholic! A daughter of theirs to be 
dismissed at a moment’s notice for deceitful conduct I 
It would be for them a second blow, coming so soon, 
too, after Nicholas’ disgrace. They would perhaps 
say to themselves: “Ursula was always troublesome, 
we might have known she would never be any good. 
She had a comfortable home and a good salary, 
and she has thrown it all away! Who will ever 
want to employ her again?” Yes, that would be the 
verdict of Pentarn. What would they have said if 
they had seen her standing outside the convent-door 
last night, alone and homeless in the streets of 
Rome ? They would not have pitied her, they would 
have blamed her bitterly. They would have said she 
had brought it on herself; she had never been one to 
be trusted. They would remember all her old short- 
comings, her petty failures, her inability to reach to 
that high standard they had set before her. 

All that had happened up till her meeting with 
Humphrey last night seemed now to belong to a 
remote, almost unreal epoch. That incident alone 
stood out in sharp unforgetable detail. The words 
he had said, the look in his eyes. She would always 
remember them. And even if he had known the 
whole truth he would certainly never have blamed 
her. She put the thought of him from her, and be- 
gan once more to examine her present situation. 

From no point of view could it be called reassur- 
ing. But for the kindly nuns with whom she had 
taken refuge she would have been still alone and 
homeless in Rome. Her hotel bill had swallowed 
up all her little store of lire. She could not re- 
turn home, even if she had had the money to pay 


262 


URSULA FINCH 


for her journey. She felt now that she was irrevo- 
cably cut off from Pentarn. They had grown accus- 
tomed to her absence, and perhaps by this time they 
had even forgotten to miss her. They had never 
missed her as people miss a beloved child, but only 
because they had lacked the slight increase of com- 
fort she had been able to bring to them. She ought 
to write — but what could she tell them? That her 
coming had been only one more disastrous failure, 
and that after little more than four months the 
Garronis had turned her out of the house without 
any salary because she had fetched the priest to 
their little girl when she lay dying? That she had 
done this because she had become a Catholic? Her 
father would blame her even more bitterly than the 
Garronis had done. For him it would furnish but 
another example of the depravity, the deceitfulness, 
of Catholics. It was unlikely that with such a story 
as that attached to her he would ever receive her 
at home again. And she wanted achingly at times 
to go back to Pentarn. To see the Atlantic again, 
all green and grey under the stormy spring sky; 
to watch it in the twilight with silver crests of foam 
dividing its shadows. To stand on the cliffs and 
hear the waves beating out their music at her feet, 
far, far below. 

Yes, she had failed, and she faced the fact now 
with a kind of forlorn and weary courage. But her 
conscience told her that she had done well, and 
that if she could go back and retrace any of her 
steps she would not change anything. While it 
could not remedy anything of her disastrous situa- 
tion, this knowledge could at least bring her a kind 
of passionate consolation. 

And Humphrey, if he knew all, he would surely 
not blame her. She would at least have liked him 
to know the true facts of the case instead of the 


URSULA FINCH 


263 

ffarbled version that would reach Pentarn through 
Mrs. Burton. They would all hear sooner or later. 
They would all know that she — the rector’s daughter 
— had been dismissed. There was always shame in 
that. Sent away at a moment’s notice without a 
character— yes, it had happened sometimes to the 
Pentarn girls who had gone away to be servants, 
and always a little shame had attached itself to them 
afterward. It wasn’t easy for them to make a second 
venture. People looked askance at girls who had 
suffered such dismissal. She began to be sorry for 
them at home ; to wish they could have been spared 
the knowledge. It couldn’t hurt Daphne now, 
though. She must be safely married by this time. 
Her wedding had been fixed for last Monday. Per- 
haps to-morrow she would get letters telling her 
about it. 

Mother Lucia was extremely kind to her. Seeing 
that the girl was thoroughly worn out and over- 
wrought, she persuaded her to spend a whole day in 
bed to get completely rested. In the meantime she 
promised to let her know if she heard of anything 
for her. Often people came to her asking her to 
recommend reliable English governesses for their 
children. She was quite sure they would soon hear 
of something. She did not tell Ursula that she had 
received a visit from Mario one morning. The 
young man had come to plead his cause with her, 
and Mother Lucia had liked his appearance and 
obvious sincerity well enough to wish him success. 
It would indeed, she felt, be a perfect solution to 
the problem of the hour. Mario was quite well off, 
and he had apparently loved Ursula almost from the 
first day of her coming to Rome. All that he had 
seen or her, and especially of her devotion to the 
children, had only served to confirm his first favor- 
able impression of her. But, of course, he would 


URSULA FINCH 


264 

never have dreamed of marrying her had she re- 
mained a Protestant. He had never thought she 
would be converted so swiftly. One glimpse of 
Catholicism had sufficed to convert her, to destroy 
all the teaching she had known at home. Further 
he assured Mother Lucia, there would be no need to 
wait. They could be married as soon as she had 
procured the necessary documents from England. 
She did not care for him as yet, it was true, but she 
would learn to care. 

Mother Lucia listened to his long statement with 
a calm attention that was very gratifying. She said 
little, but Mario had a strong feeling that she would 
not withhold her support. 

“At present I must tell you,” she said at last, 
“Ursula’s one idea is to find a situation away from 
Rome. The Princess Cantarelli is looking for an 
Englishwoman to take charge of her elder child, 
and I have written to her about Ursula. I haven’t 
told her yet for fear of a disappointment, but it 
would be an excellent thing for her. The Princess 
lives at Mintella, in Tuscany, she was educated in 
England and is a very pious Catholic. I feel that 
it would be a happy and safe home for Ursula.” 

“Oh, don’t send her to Tuscany!” said Mario, in 
dismay. “Don’t let her go away from Rome. I 
might never see her again.” 

“I’m afraid I can’t make any promises. If the 
Princess’ reply is favorable I shall send Ursula to 
see her to-morrow evening.” 

“It is monstrous that she should have to earn her 
own living like this!” said Mario, warmly. “Do 
you know that her sister has Just married an im- 
mensely wealthy man — an old English milord, twice 
her own age? She ought not to leave Miss Finch 
to be a dependent drudge in Italy, wasting all her 
youth!” 


URSULA FINCH 


265 

Ursula had never mentioned Daphne’s marriage 
to Mother Lucia. It affected her so little that it had 
never occurred to her to do so, or indeed to discuss 
it with anyone. She had even let Madame Garroni 
discover it for herself. The news was therefore a 
complete surprise to Mother Lucia, and like Mario 
she wondered why Ursula was still allowed to remain 
so forlorn and poor and friendless in Rome. Per- 
haps her conversion had cut her off from her own 
people, as was so often still unhappily the case. She 
had never thought of Ursula as having any rich or 
influential relations. The affair became mysterious. 
Why had the girl ever accepted such a wretched 
position as the one she had occupied in the Garronis’ 
household? She had been half nurse, half slave. 
A girl of her birth and education could surely have 
found more profitable and attractive employment 
elsewhere. She must question her on the point, and 
find out why she had ever been induced to leave her 
home. 

And then to complicate the matter still further 
there was this young man keenly desirous of marry- 
ing her. He had been an inmate of that very house- 
hold, had seen Ursula at her tasks, had admired her 
courage and devotion, and had fallen in love with 
her. She thought Ursula might do worse for her- 
self than accept such a fate. 

“But if — as you say — she doesn’t care for you, 
it would perhaps be best that she should go quite 
away,” she said. 

“It would be very hard on me,” he answered. 

“Still if she found employment in Rome you would 
not ever see her, it would be indiscreet, even impru- 
dent, of you to try to do so.” 

“Anyhow, I hope she won’t go too far away.” 

With that he took his leave, a little dissatisfied and 
feeling as if Ursula were slipping out of his reach. 


266 


URSULA FINCH 


He had hoped to see her that day, but Mother Lucia 
had assured him that it would be impossible, for 
Ursula was resting after all the fatigue and emotion 
of the events she had just passed through. He 
didn’t want her to leave Rome, and if he had been 
able to see her he would have urged her very 
strongly to remain there. Of course, she had been 
vilely treated by His uncle and aunt, perhaps that 
had disgusted her with the place and made her long 
to go away. 

It was miserable at home now. Since the funeral 
Arabella had taken to her bed. There was no ser- 
vant, and his grandmother had to manage as best 
she could, for no help was forthcoming from 
Madame Garroni who lay there bewailing her fate 
and weeping. He and Guido took all their meals 
at a restaurant. It was an uncomfortable state of 
things. Ursula had hardly been missed so much at 
Pentarn as she was missed now in the Garronis’ flat. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


O N the following morning Mother Lucia came 
into Ursula’s room and found her sitting at her 
table, writing. 

The letter was for her mother. It was a difficult 
one to write, and she was haunted by a dismal sense 
of the effect it would produce when it reached Pen- 
tarn. Still, delay would be worse than useless. Al- 
ready, in all probability, Madame Garroni would 
have written to Mrs. Burton, giving her her own 
version of the story, and thus would have got her 
oar in first. The news when it did arrive would 
spread like wildfire to Pentarn. Ursula could picture 
the consternation and dismay that would reign at 
the rectory. 

“I have had a letter from Princess Cantarelli,” 
said Mother Lucia; “she wishes to see you at five 
o’clock this afternoon. This is her address.” She 
put a slip of paper into Ursula’s hand. 

The girl glanced at it and her face fell. The 
Princess was staying at the same hotel where she 
herself had spent the night after leaving the Gar- 
ronis. It was where Humphrey Willmot was stay- 
ing. By going there she would run the risk of meet- 
ing him. She remembered, as in a flash, the two 
beautiful women with whom he had entered the 
lounge. She had noticed them both, but especially 
the younger one who looked about eighteen and was 
of remarkable beauty, and evidently of Italian birth. 
Perhaps the Princess would prove to be one of them. 

“Oh, I can’t go there I I would rather not go to 
that hotel,” she exclaimed impulsively. 

Her very obvious nervous distress struck Mother 
Lucia forcibly, especially after all that Mario had 
said. 


267 


268 


URSULA FINCH 


“But, my dear child, what reason can you possibly 
have for not wishing to go there?” 

Ursula’s face flushed. 

“You see it is the same hotel where I spent the 
night when the Garronis turned me out.” 

“But you were able to pay them, I hope?” said 
Mother Lucia. 

“Oh yes, I was just able to do that. But I met 
someone I knew there, someone who used to live 
near my home at Pentarn.” 

Mother Lucia felt that the mystery was deepening. 
It was the first time that Ursula had not been per- 
fectly frank and simple with her. She said very 
kindly : 

“And is there any real reason why you should 
wish to avoid this person?” 

“No real reason, except that I’d rather — I’d much 
rather — not see him again.” 

She had so hoped that in a few days she might 
leave Rome quietly with the Princess, and thus be 
freed from all fear of meeting Humphrey. It was 
the worst of luck that she should be asked to go 
and interview someone at that particular hotel. 

And yet there was a hunger in her heart that 
cried out fiercely to be satisfied. If she could only 
see him once more, only hear his voice I It was 
strange that her reason should so strongly oppose 
such a meeting. 

Mother Lucia formed a resolution to penetrate to 
the truth of the matter. She was going to recom- 
mend Ursula as a suitable person to have the care 
of little children, and if there were any secret, dis- 
honorable or otherwise, in her life, she had a right 
to know it. 

For, as Mario had said, it was strange that she 
should be in Rome and in such straits, dependent 
too upon her own exertions, when her sister was 
such a rich and important person. 


URSULA FINCH 269 

“Had this person anything to do with your leaving 
England?” she asked at last. 

“Yes — no — ^yes, I think he had.” 

“Won’t you tell me about it, Ursula?” said 
Mother Lucia. 

She liked the girl, and took a deep interest in her. 
She wished, too, to befriend her, to find her a good 
home where she would be happy. 

“Oh, there is ve^ little to tell,” said Ursula. 
“He was staying with his parents near my home 
last spring. His mother liked Daphne — that is my 
sister, she wasn’t married then — and asked her to 
stay with them in London. It was thought, you see, 
that perhaps he might fall in love with Daphne and 
marry her. They wanted him to marry — his parents, 
I mean. But I don’t think he ever thought of 
Daphne, and now she has just married Lord Cheam. 
Sometimes I used to meet Mr. Willmot on the cliffs.” 
She raised her frank dark eyes to Mother Lucia’s. 
“When they knew about it they scolded me — they 
forbade me to go beyond the garden without leave. 
He didn’t know that, of course.” After all what a 
poor little skeleton-story hers was, utterly destitute 
of dramatic beautiful moments or thrilling inter- 
ludes. “Daphne didn’t like it, and I am sure that 
was why they all changed their minds suddenly and 
sent me abroad with Madame Garroni. She was 
staying with her sister, Mrs. Burton, at Pentarn, 
and she asked me to come here with her as a nursery- 
governess; she never told me I should have to do 
the work of a general servant.” 

“And this man — was he in love with you?” 

“Oh, no — no!” There was an eagerness to re- 
fute the idea which struck Mother Lucia at the time 
as a little exaggerated. “Why, we hardly knew each 
other. And in any case he would never have looked 
at me!” 

Mother Lucia gave something like a sigh of relief. 


270 


URSULA FINCH 


After all it was the story of a sister’s selfishness, and 
she wondered if Lady Cheam would try to make 
amends to Ursula now for the harsh treatment of 
the past. They had exiled her because she was in 
their way, and they had taken apparently no trouble 
to safeguard her interests, to ascertain that she 
would be properly treated by the people who had 
engaged her. 

Only one thing now needed explanation, and that 
was the reason for her obviously sincere desire not 
to meet this man again; this man who all uncon- 
sciously had played so important a part in the shap- 
ing of her life. 

“And what is he doing now in Rome?” 

“I don’t know, except that he said once he often 
came here in the winter. I saw him in the lounge of 
the hotel; he had just come in with two ladies. He 
was kind when the manager said that there was no 
room for me, he insisted upon his finding me one. 
He told him that I was a friend of his. But I did 
not see him again after that night, for I left so 
early in the morning to go to little Alda’s funeral.” 

“Is he a Catholic?” Mother Lucia asked. There 
were still points in the little history that perplexed 
and puzzled her. 

“No, but he was the first person I ever knew to 
praise the Catholic religion to me; he said he was 
sorry there had ever been the Reformation in Eng- 
land. Since I have become a Catholic I have never 
forgotten to pray for him.” 

Mother Lucia had now come to the conclusion 
that the mystery was only the most innocent and 
commonplace little love-story. But it was obvious 
to her that this man whom Ursula had known at 
Pentarn and on whose account she had been banished 
was the one who stood in the way of the realization 
of Mario’s hopes. 

“I think you had better go and see the Princess 


URSULA FINCH 


271 


all the same, Ursula. Even if you do meet this old 
friend of yours it cannot matter, but I don’t suppose 
you’ll come across him. The hotel is large and 
always crowded. You are going there on business, 
and you will come away at once after your inter- 
view.” 

“Very well,” said Ursula reluctantly, “I will go.” 

It was almost dark as she passed through the 
streets of Rome that evening. Dusk had come pre- 
maturely, for there had been a heavy shower of 
rain, reducing the cobbled stones to a condition of 
perilous and greasy slipperiness. Overhead dark 
storm-clouds were traveling across the sky in threat- 
ening squadrons. The cabmen had put up their 
huge gingham umbrellas which gave such a top- 
heavy effect to their vehicles. But the lights shone 
brilliantly, and there was the customary evening 
stir. People were pouring into the churches for 
Benediction. Ursula caught glimpses of daintily- 
dressed women, leaning back in sumptuous motors. 
The great column in the Piazza Colonna reared 
itself majestically in dark silhouette against the sky. 
She crossed the Corso, and soon reached the door 
of the hotel. 

She gave her name to the concierge who sent it 
up at once to the Princess. After a short delay 
Ursula was taken up in the elevator to her private 
sitting-room. 

The Princess came from the north of Italy, and 
she was very fair, almost as fair as Daphne, but 
her skin though white and flawless had that peculiar 
duskiness which accompanies fair hair in the south. 
Her pale golden hair was dressed with a careful 
simplicity that suited her round, rather innocent, 
small face. She was pretty and slender and ex- 
quisitely dressed. 

“I think I saw you the other night. Miss Finch,” 
she said. She spoke English with perfect fluency and 


272 


URSULA FINCH 


with very slight trace of any foreign accent. ‘‘You 
were here — were you not? — when I came in with 
Mr. Willmot, and my friend Donna Ermelinda 
Caffari.’’ 

Donna Ermelinda ! That then was the name of 
the beautiful dark girl whose eyes had momentarily 
rested upon the shabby distressed figure of Ursula 
Finch ! 

“Yes,” she said, “Mr. Willmot kindly helped me. 
I was in great difficulty, as perhaps Mother Lucia 
told you. The people I was with turned me out 
because I had fetched the priest when their little 
girl lay dying. And it was late; when I got to the 
convent it was closed, and the cabman brought me 
here.” 

“Poor child,” said the Princess, kindly. She 
looked at Ursula and saw how really pretty she was, 
despite her shabby, unfashionable raiment, her worn 
shoes and gloves. She had a charming expression 
too, young, frank, innocent, and her eyes were fear- 
less and courageous. But she was far too young, 
and still too much of the inexperienced trusting child, 
to be “on her own” in a great city. 

“It was quite brave of you to do what you did, 
and this man if he ever repents and comes to his 
right senses will be the first to thank you for what 
you did. But you are very young, and I imagine 
you have never been about alone before. One does 
not know quite what to do, does one?” 

She knew much more about her than even Ursula 
suspected, for Mother Lucia had given her a pretty 
succinct account of her adventures with the Garroni 
family, and it had made her feel indignant with them, 
especially when she recognized her as the girl to 
whose assistance Humphrey Willmot had gone the 
other night. Well, he would be surprised to learn 
that she had discovered the whereabouts of his little 


URSULA FINCH 


273 


protegee, knowing that he had evinced a certain 
anxiety on the subject. 

She asked Ursula a few questions, respecting her 
people, her education and her abilities. But she had 
taken a fancy to her, and had already secretly de- 
termined to engage her. She liked her soft way 
of speaking, her grave pretty manners. 

“I think you will suit me perfectly,” she said, 
when Ursula had answered her questions. “And 
since Mother Lucia can recommend you, and as Mr. 
Willmot knows your people in England I shall feel 
that I know quite enough about you. For the rest 
you will have a good home with us. You will have 
the care of my little girl, she is just seven. You 
will give her her first lessons, she is a young monkey 
and so far has not learned anything at all. My 
baby boy is still in the nursery, he isn’t quite three, 
so for the present you won’t have anything to do 
with him. I am sure that you understand children 
and that you will be kind to my little Maria. I 
want her to learn to speak English while she is still 
quite a little child. Can you be ready to come with 
me quite soon. Miss Finch? I am tired of being in 
Rome, and I should like to start on Tuesday. To- 
day is Saturday — will that be too soon for you?” 

“Oh no, I shall be perfectly ready ! I would come 
to-morrow — ” said Ursula, joyfully. 

Her pleasure was so real, so sincerely expressed, 
that the Princess smiled. She rose and went to her 
writing-table. 

“Your salary will be two hundred lire a monthj” 
she said, “at any rate to begin with. I will give 
you one month in advance as you may wish to get 
yourself some winter things. Our climate is cold 
in winter, you will feel the difference after Rome. 
And you will have very little opportunity of buying 
anything when once we are there. We are so far 


274 


URSULA FINCH 


from Florence that we don’t often go in.” She put 
a little roll of notes into Ursula’s hand. 

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” she said. “It is very 
kind of you to think of it.” 

She had been wondering how she could possibly 
procure some new shoes. Her own were quite worn 
out, they had not been very new when she left Pen- 
tarn. A warm winter coat was also highly necessary. 
And surely, too, there would be enough to repay the 
nuns for their hospitality^ and to send something 
home to her mother. 

She had never possessed such a large sum before, 
and a sudden scruple about taking it seized her. 

“I don’t think I’m worth such a large salary,” 
she said. “I had only a little over six hundred 
lire a year when I was with Madame Garroni.” 

“I am giving you what I always give,” said the 
Princess. 

“I have so little experience,” said Ursula. 

The Princess smiled. 

“Have you known Mr. Willmot a long time?” 
she asked, changing the subject. 

She had been a little astonished at the prompt 
manner in which Humphrey had gone to the assist- 
ance of little Miss Finch the other night. She was 
such a different type from the dainty, charming, 
sophisticated women who usually attracted him. She 
was less surprised now that she had been talking to 
her for a little time. She found something very 
fresh and attractive about Ursula. 

“Not very long. Last spring his parents took the 
Abbey which is near my home at Pentarn.” 

“You are a convert, aren’t you? How long have 
you been a Catholic?” 

“Nearly two months,” said Ursula. 

“Only two months? What do your people say?” 

“I’ve only just written to tell them. They won’t 


URSULA FINCH 




27s 

like it; you see, my father is a clergyman, he is the 
[itctor of Pentarn.” 

The Princess was devout, and conversions inter- 
ested her. As long as they continued, despite the 
opposition of relations and friends, despite, too, the 
petty persecutions that a more tolerant world still 
permits itself to bestow, they afforded glimpses of 
that ancient spirit that had characterized the early 
Christians. There were still inheritances to be lost, 
real sacrifices to be made, for the faith. Loss of 
position, of money, of profession, these things could 
still happen. And conversions, she had been told, 
were becoming every day more frequent in England. 

“Is your father High Church or Low Church?” 
she inquired, for she had been in England and had 
heard these differences discussed. 

“Very Low Church, madame. He dislikes the 
Catholic religion very much. He can’t bear the 
High Church teaching either.” 

“That is so wonderful. All sorts of men teaching 
all sorts of doctrine. I’m told there’s only one 
thing they all have in common and that is a dislike 
of the Pope !” 

Ursula knew little enough about the Church of 
England except what she had seen of it in Pentarn. 
She knew what her father taught and what presum- 
ably he believed. It was quite simple, and he could 
to his own satisfaction, if not always to that of his 
hearers, find proofs for what he taught in the Bible, 
and he was accustomed to quote passages from it in 
support of his beliefs. He disliked High Church 
practices when his attention was drawn to them, 
and was hardly on speaking terms with his fellow- 
clergyman at St. Faith’s because he had advertised 
for a “Catholic curate with six points.” Mr. Finch 
held two services every Sunday. Once a month he 
had a Communion Service at eight o’clock, and once 


URSULA FINCH 


276 

also after the morning service. He preached twice 
on Sundays, and considered himself a hard-worked 
underpaid man. A parish priest, on half the stipend, 
with his nights perpetually broken by sick-calls, and 
his long hours of work in the confessional, might 
have considered Mr. Finch’s duties almost nominal. 

“Your sister is Lady Cheam, is she not?” 

“Yes,” said Ursula; “she was married the other 
day.” 

“I think I used to meet her husband dans le temps. 
He must be getting on in years.” 

“Yes, he is years and years older than Daphne.” 

“She is older than you, I suppose?” 

“Yes, about two years. She is nearly twenty-five.” 

“Mr. Willmot told me she was very lovely.” 

“Yes,” assented Ursula. 

“I wonder why you didn’t go home when those 
people turned you out?” said the Princess. “Don’t 
you think they would have received you?” 

“I could not be sure. But in any case it would 
have been out of the question. I had no money, 
and the journey costs a great deal. We are very 
poor — ” 

“But Lord Cheam is very rich,” said the Princess. 

“Daphne wouldn’t think of sending me money,” 
said Ursula, “she always wants so much. And up 
till now she has never had enough. I only hope she 
will sometimes remember to send my mother some.” 

They talked for a little longer, and then the Prin- 
cess gave her some directions about the journey. She 
was to meet her at the station on Tuesday morning, 
and they would travel back to Tuscany together. 

“I am sure I hope you will be happy with us,” 
said the Princess as she said good-by to her. When 
Ursula had gone she thought to herself : 

“Poor little girl, and she’s such a child tool She 
looks as if she badly needed someone to be kind 
to her.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII 

T he Princess had invited Humphrey to dine with 
her that night at the Grand Hotel. They had 
hardly taken their seats at the small table she had 
engaged, when she said: 

“You will be interested to hear that I have dis- 
covered the whereabouts of the little girl you came to 
the rescue of the other night!” Woman-like she 
regarded him with some curiosity as she spoke, to 
watch the effect of her words upon him. 

“Do you mean little Ursula Finch?” he said. 
“Why, where is she? And how did you find her? 
They assured me at the hotel that she had gone away 
quite early without leaving any address.” 

His indolent satirical face betrayed only a faint 
surprise. 

“It was quite by chance,” she informed him. “You 
know I wrote to Mother Lucia begging her to recom- 
mend a nursery-governess for my little Maria, an 
English one if possible. And she sent Miss Finch 
to me. The girl had taken refuge there — it seems 
she knew them. Of course, I recognized her the 
moment she came into the room. By the way, she is 
really pretty. You don’t notice it at first, and then 
afterward you think you must have been extraor- 
dinarily stupid not to have done so.” 

“Do you?” He was smiling now. “But perhaps 
I noticed it at first, it always seemed to me quite 
apparent.” 

“Yes, perhaps a man would. It’s a charming 
little face. I’ve engaged her.” 

It was indeed a curious coincidence that Mother 
Lucia should have sent this very girl to her, in reply 
to her request for a trustworthy and well-educated 
277 


URSULA FINCH 


278 

Englishwoman accustomed to the care of children. 
And the Princess had taken a sudden strong liking to 
the girl. She felt that if she remained with her she 
might become a life-long friend of the family, as 
women in her position so often do. When she had 
said good-by to her that evening she had resolved 
to find out all she could about her from Humphrey 
Willmot. 

For, of course, behind it she felt that there must 
be some little romance, some quite innocent mystery. 

“What I don’t understand,” she told him when 
they were half-way through dinner, “is why she 
should be here at all and so poor, and in such a 
dependent position, when her sister has married old 
Cheam who is rolling in money.” 

“The reason is perfectly simple,” said Humphrey. 
“Daphne Cheam is the most absolutely selfish woman 
I have ever met. She cares for no one but herself. 
She would not mind in the least if her sister starved 
to death if she herself had all the food and dresses 
and diamonds and motors that she wanted. Her 
selfishness is so complete, so natural, so undisguised, 
that one really cannot help admiring it sometimes 1” 

“It is very hard on this one, though. In her last 
place she seems to have done all the cooking and 
house-work, as well as looking after the children, 
for little more than six hundred lire a year.” 

“I always advised her not to go there,” said 
Humphrey warmly. “I never could understand why 
she went. But it seems her people insisted, and really 
she was such a little slave at home one felt it could 
hardly be an exchange for the worse.” 

“Perhaps they had some reason for wishing to get 
rid of her,” suggested the Princess. 

“I thought of that too. But what reason could 
there have been? She was so useful to them — did 
the work of two servants — I should have thought 
they would have wanted to keep her at all costs.” 


URSULA FINCH 


279 


“Then you think there was no particular reason 
for her to come abroad with such very undesirable 
people?” 

She was questioning him delicately, and Hum- 
phrey, aware of the fact, was a little on his guard. 

He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, the Finches 
are as poor as the proverbial church mice. And Miss 
Daphne must have worn such revenues as there were 
upon her fair shoulders. This one had the oppor- 
tunity of earning her own living, and they insisted 
upon her taking it. I remember they refused at 
first, and then changed their minds and insisted upon 
her going. I don’t know if she had done anything 
to displease them, but I don’t see how she could 
have done so. She hadn’t a thought except how she 
could best get through her work. She was a hard- 
worked little drudge, but her going must have made 
one less mouth to feed.” 

“Well, she was a slave and a drudge at this Ma- 
dame Garroni’s. And then to be turned into the 
street, at night tool It was abominable.” 

“Turned into the street!” His fair face was 
flushed with indignation. “I never knew that. But 
of course she hadn’t time the other night to explain 
to me exactly what had happened. And I was 
afraid to ask her, she was on the verge of tears, 
poor child. She’d come to the end of her tether, it 
would have only been cruel. Do you really mean 
she didn’t leave them of her own accord?” 

“Indeed I do. But perhaps you have not heard 
that she is a convert. She tells me that she’s been a 
Catholic about two months. I don’t know what 
brought it about, I didn’t like to ask. But this 
Garroni is a violent Freemason and she fetched the 
priest when his little girl was dying, and he lost his 
temper and turned her out that night. At least that’s 
what Mother Lucia told me. Miss Finch seerned 
to think there would be a difiiculty about her going 


28 o 


URSULA FINCH 


home now, as her father is a clergyman and dislikes 
the Catholic religion very much.” 

“He does indeed,” said Humphrey dryly. “I 
heard him preach against it once.” 

His astonishment was very great. Ursula had 
indeed cut the ground from beneath her feet, with a 
fine, a reckless courage that he could not help admir- 
ing. So she had succumbed, had she, to the spiritual 
enchantment of Rome? Yet, how natural it was 
that she should have done so. He remembered her 
bewildered joy when she first read Crashaw. She 
had said that he made of religion a different thing. 
She was of a highly impressionable, imaginative type, 
and Rome must have made an almost passionate 
appeal to her. And she must quite deliberately have 
counted the cost. Such home as she had — that nar- 
row oblong stone rectory, lying on the blunt summit 
of the Cornish cliff, within sight and sound of the 
Atlantic — would be irrevocably closed to her now. 
She was penniless, and the thought of the future had 
not frightened her. When he had seen her and taken 
pity on her the other night, she must have been alone 
and perfectly friendless in Rome. That was the 
reason, perhaps, of her passionate gratitude. But 
he remembered now almost with anguish the calm 
face, the fearless and steady shining of her eyes that 
had never seemed to him so beautiful before, the 
little tremor in her voice as she thanked him, which 
was the only indication she had given of any extraor- 
dinary emotion. And the next morning when he 
inquired for her he found that she had paid her bill 
and gone, leaving no address. It was by the merest 
chance he had heard of her again. Now he had a 
stronger wish than ever to see her, to hear the 
poignant little story from her own lips. 

He glanced round the splendid, sumptuous, and 
glittering restaurant. From their table they could 
command a view of the whole room, which to-night 


URSULA FINCH 


281 


was crowded to overflowing. There were men and 
women of many nationalities present, languid diplo- 
mats with attentive observant eyes ; beautiful women 
dressed in the latest eccentricities of fashion; Italian 
officers in resplendent uniforms; a few notabilities 
from various European capitals; writers and artists 
of world-wide reputation. A very celebrated Lon- 
don physician was to be seen there dining with the 
son of a great Roman house. Americans with calm 
faces discussed the latest pronouncements of their 
President. The dinner was perfectly cooked and 
served. The murmur of conversation, of laughter, 
filled the room. But Humphrey scarcely observed 
any of these details. His thoughts were full of 
Ursula Finch. He admired her the more because 
she had done what he himself had not had the 
courage to do. And she stood to lose everything by 
the step. Brave, brave little girl. . . . 

“I am glad to know she will be with you,” he said 
suddenly, turning to his companion. “I’m sure you 
will be very kind to her, that she’ll be happier with 
you than she’s ever been before.” He stopped short. 
After all did he want Ursula to go with the Princess? 
He had so looked forward to seeing her again. 

“You must come and pay us a visit and judge for 
yourself,” said the Princess. “We shall be delighted 
if you will stay with us. Come next month. 
November is quite a charming month with us if it 
doesn’t rain too much.” 

“I shall be delighted to come,” said Humphrey. 
“I want to see my little friend Maria again.” 

“I have my own chapel now. But, of course, that 
isn’t an attraction to you I” 

“To tell you the truth I’m not sure that it isn’t 
beginning to be !” he was surprised into saying. 

“Are you going to convert yourself ?” she inquired. 

“I couldn’t even be sure of that!” 

“I used to have hopes of you once. But now I 


282 


URSULA FINCH 


confess I have rather given up thinking of it. You 
have disappointed me so often.” 

“Have 1 ? I’m sorry for that I You must take 
me seriously in hand.” He smiled, but there was 
something of discontent in his smile, a subtle sadness. 
“This little girl has done, you see, what I’ve never 
had the courage to do. I used to talk to her about 
religion at Pentarn — she’s just the sort of sympa- 
thetic person one rather easily talks intimately to. 
She knew absolutely nothing then of the Catholic 
faith, except the few prejudices her father had taught 
her. I remember her telling me I was the first per- 
son who had ever praised the Catholic Church in 
her hearing.” 

“It seems then that you have actually helped to 
make a conversion,” she said, with a touch of satire. 
“You must allow me to congratulate you, especially 
as it has been of such service to myself. But the 
fact that she is Lady Cheam’s sister rather annoys 
me. It makes me feel as if Miss Finch would be 
in a false position doing nurse to my little Maria.” 

“My dear Princess, she’s worth fifty Lady 
Cheams,” he told her with considerable emphasis. 

“Well, in any case, I hope you will come and see 
how she is getting on. And if by then you want any 
instruction we have a charming chaplain. He is an 
old man, but very holy and full of zeal.” 

“Oh, now you are making me afraid to cornel” 
said Humphrey lightly; “you are showing me rather 
too much of the net !” 

Still he intended to go, if only to assure himself 
that Ursula was happy in her new surroundings. At 
any rate he could comfort himself with the thought 
that she would be kindly treated, that she would 
have a good home. The Princess would probably 
make a friend of her; she had led a lonely life in her 
old Tuscan villa since the death of her husband 
nearly three years ago. He wondered why, when 


URSULA FINCH 


283 

everything about the scheme seemed so perfect, he 
should have this odd dislike to picturing Ursula in a 
dependent position. But he refused to examine this 
dislike too closely. There was a reason for it, but 
he did not wish to think of it. He had made a 
decision at Pentarn, and he wasn’t going to allow 
circumstances to make him go back upon it. Yet the 
sight of her, forlorn and alone the other night, had 
gone very near to destroying that deliberate pru- 
dence of his. 

“You know I am a very impulsive woman,” con- 
tinued the Princess, breaking in upon his thoughts, 
“and I took such a great liking to her, that I am 
quite glad you know her and all about her. It makes 
me feel I haven’t done an imprudent thing to engage 
a girl just because she has a pretty face and nice 
ways.” 

“I’m delighted then to have been of service to 
her and to you,” he said gravely. “The Finch 
family are all that is most respectable. My mother 
took an enormous fancy to Lady Cheam before her 
marriage. She stayed with us in London and in 
Scotland, and it was there that her engagement 
took place.” 

“And you — I take it — ^you did not care much for 
Lady Cheam?” 

She wondered if he had been as indifferent as he 
pretended to be toward Daphne Finch. 

“No,” he replied, “but I was on my guard. I 
labeled her dangerous, you know.” He laughed. 

“But do not label little Miss Finch dangerous, 
too,” she implored, with mock earnestness. 

Immediately he grew grave again. 

“If I did,” he answered, “it would be for quite 
another reason.” 

She did not venture to ask him exactly what he 
meant by this ambiguous statement. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


I N those first weeks Ursula spent in the rambling 
old Tuscan villa that looked down upon Florence 
from its lofty position in a “gash of the wind-grieved 
Apennine” she used to wonder if life could ever hold 
for her happier or more peaceful days. It was like 
suddenly entering a calm harbor after many weeks 
spent upon a rough and storm-tossed sea. 

The place was indeed a home of ancient peace. 
For the first time almost within her remembrance 
Ursula did not go to bed, worn out and exhausted, 
with the knowledge that the few hours of rest would 
be insufficient to renew her strength in such measure 
as to enable her to cope adequately with the mor- 
row’s tasks. Indeed, her work was of the lightest 
kind, and she sometimes had a scruple about receiv- 
ing so much and giving so little in return. She slept 
alone, for little Maria had a room adjoining her 
mother’s and was dressed by the nurse, so Ursula 
had nothing to do for her until she fetched her at 
eight o’clock to take her down to Mass in the chapel. 
There the whole household assembled, as well as 
many of the peasants who worked on the estate. 
It was a small, old building, the ceiling painted with 
groups of saints and angels in the Baroque style, 
and the altar a beautiful one of inlaid marble. There 
was a picture of Our Lady of Perpetual Succor, 
which was said to be miraculous, and it was entirely 
surrounded by clusters of votive offerings, silver and 
gold hearts, medals, rosaries and other gifts, pre- 
sented in gratitude for graces obtained. 

After Mass Ursula breakfasted with little Maria, 
and during the morning she gave her simple lessons 
and took her out for a walk. Then came the mid- 
284 


URSULA FINCH 


285 

day meal which they had with the Princess, and 
afterward Ursula had two hours of perfectly free 
time while her small charge took her siesta. Another 
walk, or perhaps a long drive with the Princess in 
her motor, followed by tea on their return, filled up 
the rest of the afternoon. Maria generally spent 
an hour with her mother before dinner, which was 
served at seven on the child’s account. Maria went 
to bed soon after eight, and Ursula had the rest of 
the evening to herself to spend as she chose. 

The Princess was a great reader, and her husband 
had always gratified her taste for books. There was 
a fine old library, and Ursula could borrow any 
books she liked. She had ample opportunities for 
reading, and she found many English books there 
which she devoured eagerly. Conscientiously she 
prepared little Maria’s lessons beforehand. Already 
she had made friends with her, and with the fat 
three-year-old Luigi or Gigi as he was commonly 
called. Everyone in the house from the Princess 
downward was kind to her. After her life in Rome 
she felt as if she had suddenly been transported into 
paradise. She was almost afraid to look forward, 
for fear something should happen to turn her adrift 
once more. 

Both her parents had written to her, angry letters 
in which she was told that she must never expect to 
be allowed to live at home again. She would have 
to earn her living and to be dependent on her own 
exertions. They could not have her at Pentarn, the 
disgrace would be too great, and they were afraid 
that she might contaminate Ruth. Besides, if they 
were to receive her, it would look as if they were 
countenancing and condoning her deplorable action. 
It was useless to expect any comfort from their 
children, always excepting Daphne. She was the 
only one who had responded to their careful upbring- 


286 


URSULA FINCH 


ing. They might have known, Mrs. Finch had 
added, that Ursula would bring trouble and sorrow 
upon them. She had always been the obstinate self- 
willed one of the family. They were horrified too, 
as indeed she had expected them to be, about the 
reason for her abrupt dismissal. To think that a 
daughter of theirs, brought up as she had been to 
know and hate the Roman Catholic Church, should 
have been perverted so quickly and so thoroughly 
that she could have lent herself to such a course, in 
defiance of the parents’ wishes, and utterly without 
compassion for their sorrow. They could hardly 
believe it, but Mrs. Burton had driven over to 
relate the whole history to them, and to assure them 
that Madame Garroni had had no choice but to dis- 
miss their daughter summarily. There was a sug- 
gestion, too, that she had carried on a clandestine 
love-affair with young Mario, the nephew of Guido 
Garroni. Mrs. Finch wrote that she would have 
found it hard to believe that, if it had not been for 
Ursula’s very unsatisfactory conduct just before she 
left home. 

Ursula shed a few tears over the letter. She had 
so longed to save up enough money to go home, and 
see Ruth again and hear news of Nicholas, who was 
now never mentioned in any letters from Pentarn. 
But some day she hoped to put by enough to enable 
Ruth to come to her. They would settle down in 
some city, in Rome or Florence for example, and 
give English lessons and thus earn enough to keep 
themselves. And she would teach Ruth to be a 
Catholic, picturing to herself how eagerly her little 
sister would learn and assimilate the truths of Holv 
Church. 

She wrote to her parents on receipt of their letters, 
enclosing such money as she could spare, and telling 
them of her good fortune in having found such a 
delightful post. She was well and happy and liked 


URSULA FINCH 


287 

the people she was with. She did not allude to the 
events that had taken place in Rome. They were 
buried and out of sight, and -only dimly remembered 
like the episodes in some forgotten nightmare. 

But she did think of those golden autumn days of 
Pentarn. She could see the woods with the bracken 
fading to delicious tints of yellow and copper, the 
beech trees lifting golden boughs against a pale blue 
sky; the long blue line of the Atlantic, the thought 
of which could always make her feel a little home- 
sick, as the islander must always feel when far from 
the sight and sound of the sea. Pentarn . 
yes, and the steep, winding, white road that led up 
to St. Faith’s, with its little harbor pool where the 
sea-gulls roved about the fishing-boats in white blots, 
its huddled grey houses, its tiny crooked streets and 
alleys where the fishermen’s children played. The 
lint-colored hair, the brown cheeks, the sea-blue eyes, 
the soft Cornish voices. The fishing-boats going 
out to find their treasure in the depths of the ocean. 
The days when the sea laughed and sparkled under 
a calm sky. The evenings at low tide when it lay 
like a gigantic silver mirror reflecting every detail 
of the brown and golden and white sails that stirred 
so languidly in the breeze. The nights of winter 
storm when the dull boom of the rockets would 
awaken every man, woman and child in St. Faith’s, 
and every street would echo with the patter of hurry- 
ing feet rushing shoreward because there was a 
vessel in distress out there in the darkness. 

She longed achingly at times to return to Pentarn. 
It hurt her to think she wouldn’t be welcome there 
now. They didn’t want her back any more. She 
had offended them past forgiveness. Would they 
always have these hard thoughts of her? Wasn’t 
there anything that she had done for them in the 
past that would plead for her now? 

Still there was very much to interest her in her new 


288 


URSULA FINCH 


life. The estate was a large one, consisting chiefly 
of immense stretches of olive-woods and vineyards. 
The Princess took a personal interest in it, and ex- 
plained to Ursula the mezzeria system which pre- 
vailed there, as it still does on most Tuscan proper- 
ties. By this ancient law, which savors somewhat of 
a modified feudal system, the peasants live on the 
estate rent free, and work it, receiving half the 
profits from all the sales of its produce. And as the 
estate itself is handed down from father to child, so 
the peasants continue to live upon it from generation 
to generation, sharing equally in its wealth but leav- 
ing all responsibility to the owner. It was a fair and 
just system, the Princess explained, because in case 
of necessity the landlord had to provide extra help 
during the harvest or vintage ; he was also bound to 
see to the well-being of the peasants, and should the 
crops prove a failure to make up the deficit to them. 
In this way they were insured against bad seasons. 

Every inch of the ground was cultivated. Wheat 
was sown beneath the olive trees. The vines were 
trailed between rows of maple trees and in spring 
their garlands of bright green leaves hung from 
stem to stem like gigantic emerald necklaces. Large 
crops of maize and potatoes were grown, and there 
were great tracts of chestnut woods which also pro- 
vided a source of wealth and food. 

There was no poverty on the estate, and the 
contadini seemed both happy and contented. They 
were pious and industrious, and Ursula soon made 
friends with some of the children who helped their 
parents in the work of the fields. In those days of 
late November the dark fruit of the olive was being 
gathered, and often a small figure could be seen 
scaling a ladder and dropping the ripe round balls 
into the shallow wicker-baskets which are used for 
the purpose. Even then the leaves still covered the 


URSULA FINCH 


289 

trees with a glory of color, and the chestnut woods 
showed a tinge of flame on the lower slopes of the 
hills. In the garden the roses were blossoming 
almost as freely as in summer. Clumps of salvias 
made blotted scarlet masses. There was an odor 
of violets mingling with the scent of roses and the 
queer acrid whiffs of olive smoke that blew in from 
the woods where the charcoal-burners were at work. 
The ripening persimmons hung decorative golden 
balls from bare branches stripped of all save their 
fruit. 

In front of the villa there was a wide terrace fac- 
ing south and very sunny on those days of late au- 
tumn. It had clipped box borders, and here and 
there were ancient statues much discolored by wind 
and weather, but lending an indefinable grace to the 
formal arrangement of the garden. On both sides 
of the terrace were deep groves of ilex trees that 
made a warm grey-green background. But in front 
of the house it was bordered only by a low stone 
balustrade that faced due south, and from which 
one looked over a wonderful stretch of country 
filled with the silver-grey foam of innumerable olive- 
trees beneath which showed a film of green. Belts 
of woods, with a wonderful purple and russet bloom 
upon them, lent warmth to the middle distance and 
far away in the plain one could on fine days catch 
a glimpse of Florence, with its Dome and many tow- 
ers rising up delicately through a sea of mist. It 
was wonderfully beautiful with that touch of auster- 
ity that characterizes the Tuscan and Umbrian scen- 
ery, reminding one of the exquisite fragments of 
landscape that form the background for many an 
adoration of the Magi in the old pictures. 

The villa itself was built on two stories, and was 
long and rambling with a tower at one end that 
marked the chapel. All the living rooms, which 


290 


URSULA FINCH 


were spacious and lofty, faced south, so that the sun 
poured in at the great windows nearly all day, when- 
ever there was sun to shine. And that year the fine 
weather with its bright warmth lasted until Christ- 
mas. 

One day the Princess said to Ursula : 

“I have had a letter from Mr. Willmot, asking 
if he may come here. He is on his way home, as he 
intends to spend Christmas with his parents. It 
seems that his father is not very well.’’ 

She looked at Ursula as she spoke. The girl had 
improved very much in health and spirits since she 
had come to live with them. It was easy to see that 
she was both happy and contented. 

“It seems,” continued the Princess, “that there is 
a church in the neighborhood that he wishes to visit. 
There is a little-known Della Robbia in it, and per- 
haps you know how interested he is in Della Rob- 
bias!” 

“Yes?” said Ursula. She was not listening very 
attentively to what the Princess was saying. The 
thought that Humphrey was coming to the old villa 
filled her with something like consternation and dis- 
may. Useless all her efforts to forget him, never to 
think of him. It seemed as if he were always to cross 
her path, just as she believed that she had succeeded 
in learning the difficult lesson she had set herself. 

Cruel that he should wish to come now. Her hap- 
piness would never seem quite such a vivid and ra- 
diant thing after he had come and gone. She would 
miss him, would know something of that old agony 
of longing to see his face and to hear his voice. He 
would vanish with that happy facility of his, and 
perhaps never think of her again, whereas she would 
always be thinking of him, longing for his return. 

“I thought you would be pleased,” said the Prin- 
cess, in a disappointed tone; “you do not look at all 
pleased.” 


URSULA FINCH 


291 

“Oh, you must not think that,” said Ursula has- 
tily. “I shall be glad to see him.” 

“I suppose it was really your sister who was their 
friend?” the Princess inquired. 

“Yes. It was Daphne who stayed with them. 
Mrs. Willmot was very fond of her.” 

The Princess had been a little surprised to receive 
Humphrey’s letter. She had never thought that he 
would follow up the careless invitation she had given 
him when they were in Rome. He wrote saying 
that he was going to leave Rome for Florence, and 
would like to spend a few days with her on his way 
to the latter city. Although she had asked him to do 
so, she had never thought he would propose himself 
in this way, first, because she believed she had 
alarmed him by alluding to his possible conversion, 
and, secondly, because she imagined that he would 
find it a little odd and awkward to stay in a house 
where Miss Finch, a girl whom he knew, occupied 
such a subordinate position. Once or twice while 
she was in Rome she had thought that Hunmhrey 
was certainly attracted by the beautiful Donna Erme- 
linda Caffari, who had accompanied them that night 
when he had met Ursula Finch in the lounge of the 
hotel. She had even thought that perhaps his desire 
to marry the only daughter of a noble “Black” fam- 
ily might have suggested to his mind the idea of be- 
coming a Roman Catholic. And yet — ^had any 
thought of marrying her ever occurred to him ? She 
had known Humphrey Willmot for the pzst eight 
years, and she had always found him a singularly 
agreeable companion, but she had never felt that 
she knew him any better than she had done at first. 

During those eight years he had constantly visited 
Italy, had been first an ardent admirer of the art of 
the Quattro Cento and later on an enthusiast about 
the Baroque. He was one of those artistic young 
Englishmen, strongly imaginative and with literary 


292 


URSULA FINCH 


tastes, who seem to find themselves immediately at 
home in Italy. She and her husband had both liked 
him, and in Rome especially they had often joined 
forces and stayed at the same hotel. At first the 
Princess had regarded him as a man whose conver- 
sion would be achieved swiftly and perhaps very sud- 
denly. The Established Church had lost its hold 
upon him, and when abroad he never pretended to 
attend its services. He went to Mass regularly on 
Sundays, and knew a great deal about the Roman 
churches and their ceremonies and saints and feasts. 
He was always to be seen at important functions in 
St. Peter’s. But as the years went by and he still 
took no decided step the Princess lost hope, and won- 
dered what was holding him back. Some secret 
pride, perhaps, some secret weakness, some obscure 
sense of unworthiness or fear of failure? In her 
own experience she had known that often very slight 
and insufficient obstacles can keep good people back 
for years. But the other night at the Grand Hotel 
he had once more awakened her old hopes concern- 
ing him. He had for the first time openly discussed 
the matter with her, and though he had laughingly 
entreated her not to display the net too openly, there 
had been something serious in his attitude, as of one 
who was deeply considering the step. 

And he had said — rather to her surprise — that 
Ursula had had the courage to do the thing which 
he had never found courage to do. The knowledge 
of Ursula’s conversion had obviously startled and 
impressed him. 

He had seemed — for some reason or other — de- 
cidedly interested in the girl. But that he could ever 
have contemplated marrying her seemed to the Prin- 
cess an absurdity. She was charming and pretty, she 
looked prettier than ever in her present, more re- 
poseful life, and she was a lady and well-educated, 


URSULA FINCH 


293 


but she was distinctly not of Humphrey Willmot’s 
world. With his wealth he could make a brilliant 
marriage, and it was hardly likely that even with the 
Cheam connection he would seriously think of Ursula 
Finch. Yet, at the end of his letter he had added a 
somewhat enigmatic postscript: 

“Has Miss Finch proved the treasure you antici- 
pated? Remember me to her if she is still there.’’ 

On the whole, she thought she would not answer 
the question. Let him come and find out all that 
there was to be found out about Ursula in her pres- 
ent surroundings. It was possible that if pity was 
the predominant ingredient of his feeling for her, he 
might find her less interesting now that she was no 
longer an object for compassion. She despatched 
her reply by telegram, asking him to let her know 
the day of his arrival and the time of his train. The 
thought of his coming visit perplexed her. Had he 
really settled to stay at Mintella chiefly on Ursula’s 
account? It complicated things a little. Yet, the 
girl seemed quite unperturbed, as if her being there 
could have no possible connection with his visit. 

A few days later the Princess motored to the near- 
est station, which was some miles away, to meet 
Humphrey Willmot. It was a brilliant golden au- 
tumn morning with a thick bank of mist lying in the 
valley below. Humphrey was coming from Arezzo, 
where he had spent last night. There was a church 
there which he wished to visit, and he had taken the 
opportunity of breaking his journey for this purpose. 

There was a touch of frosty crispness in the air 
which had a wonderfully exhilarating quality. In the 
groves of olive trees the fruit was still being plucked, 
and the Princess greeted several of the workers by 
name, stopping to exchange a few words with them 
as to the quality and quantity of the crop. The vint- 
age was long ago over, and the vines were stripped 


294 


URSULA FINCH 


and bare except for an occasional crimson leaf. Now 
the harvest of the olive was to be gathered in. She 
loved the place, with its rich sequence of crops, its 
tireless agriculture, its simple picturesque customs. 
Although she missed her husband very much, she still 
found plenty to interest her in life. There were 
the two children, little Maria fair as herself, and 
Gigi, who was so like her dead Francesco. And 
there was the land he had loved, where he had been 
born, and where he had died. His had not been a 
long life, but it had been a very happy, a very full 
one. She was thinking of him to-day as she drove to 
the station. 

Humphrey alighted from the train, a slender well- 
groomed English figure. He always managed to 
look distinguished wherever he found himself. He 
took off his hat as he came up to her, uncovering his 
sleek, shining fair hair, which fell back from his 
forehead like a plume. 

“So good or you to let me come. But don’t, 
please, hand me over to your old chaplain just 
yeti” 

So he was thinking of that evening when he had 
dined with her in Rome ! 

“I shall naturally wait until you give me permis- 
sion.” Her tone was as light as his. 

His neat luggage was soon deposited in the car, 
which now resumed its journey. Humphrey sat with 
the Princess at the back. The motor was an open 
one; she had fancied that with his English love of 
fresh air he would prefer it so. And she herself 
was well wrapped up in a thick coat with an immense 
collar of black fur. 

“What delicious air I It quite goes to my head!” 

Glimpses of exquisite mountain scenery, of far- 
off snow-capped peaks gorgeously silver against a 
dark blue sky, flashed past them as they sped along 


URSULA FINCH 


29s 

the steep, white, winding road. Near-by the chest- 
nut woods made patches of sombre, fading flame. 

“It’s most awfully beautiful,” he said. “I don’t 
wonder you pine for your Tuscan fastness when you 
are in Rome.” 

“Oh, but it does one good to visit Rome. Here I 
live in a groove. It’s a very nice groove, and I 
wouldn’t change it, but I must think of the children.” 

“You will think me absurd,” he said, “but I adore 
the odor of Tuscany. It’s divine with that wild fra- 
grance, and that hint of olive smoke lurking every- 
where. I’ve tried sometimes to recapture it when 
I’ve been in England. That and the black lines of 
the cypress trees against the grey of the olives. By 
the way, how is little Miss Finch?” 

“She is very well, and I think very happy. At 
least she tells me that she is happy. I’m afraid she’s 
had a hard life — she is so unused to even the most 
common kindness I” 

“Poor child,” he murmured. “Still, I’m sure 
you are adorable to her. I believe in compensation, 
though for her it’s been long in coming.” 

“I’m not sure about adorable,” she answered, with 
a laugh, “but I hope you won’t find that she’s got too 
much to complain of.” She paused a moment. “You 
won’t turn her head, will you ? Remember, that she’s 
got Lady Cheam’s example in front of her I” She 
was half in jest and half in real earnest. 

“I shall make no promises at all,” he said; “but 
you will let me talk to her sometimes, won’t you ? I 
used to enjoy talking to her at Pentarn.” 

. “Did she enjoy talking to you?” inquired the Prin- 
cess. 

“I’m not sure, but I really believe she did.” 

“Did you see much of Donna Ermelinda after I 
left?” 

“I saw her a few times. She’s engaged, you know. 


URSULA FINCH 


296 

to somebody’s only son. Very suitable, of course, 
and really quite a lot of money.” 

“I used to think sometimes that you would marry 
her.” 

He shook his head. “I admired her enormously, 
of course. But I always remember the sage’s ad- 
vice: Never marry a woman older than yourself, or 
taller than yourself, or from another country!” 

“There is the villa,” said the Princess suddenly, 
indicating a great creamy-grey building, irregularly 
shaped and planned, standing in a nest of warm, 
dark ilex-trees. The olives mounted from terrace 
to terrace, shivering in the wind, till they were al- 
most on a level with the garden. 

“It looks a charming retreat. I always want to 
possess a villa in Tuscany — it’s the kind of thing 
you think about on a foggy day in London. But 1 
expect I should want one nearer Florence than yours. 
I should want a club, a game of bridge in bad 
weather, an occasional round of golf. Banalities of 
that kind!” 

“Not if you had a, wife,” she remarked. 

“You are determinedly hymeneal in your conver- 
sation this afternoon,” he said, in his leisurely satir- 
ical voice. “I am not so sure that if I had a villa 
I should want a wife to share it with me. I am 
quite glad you don’t know my mother — you would 
aid and abet her in all her matrimonial projects on 
my behalf.” 

They were ascending the last hill to the villa now. 
The road was bordered on both sides by splendid 
cypress trees. Beyond were low stone walls that en- 
closed the podere of vines and olives. In a few min- 
utes they had driven through the beautiful old stone 
gateway up to the house. 


CHAPTER XXX 


TLI UMPHREY WiLLMOT followed the Princess into 
a large and lofty hall, carpeted in deep red. 
A huge wood fire burned at one end of it. Ancient 
pictures and portraits hung on the paneled walls, 
and figures in armor lurked in dark corners. They 
passed through several stiffly-furnished rooms, with 
tapestried or paneled walls, painted ceilings, and 
chilly marble floors, until they came to a set of 
smaller apartments looking out upon the terraced 
garden. 

Here all was modern and simple and extremely 
comfortable. The salotto, where some refreshment 
had been placed in readiness for Humphrey, was fur- 
nished almost in an English style, with big arm- 
chairs and Chesterfields enveloped in loose chintz 
coverings. Quantities of flowers, both in vases and 
pots, decorated the room, and filled it with a de- 
licious fragrance. A piano stood open, with music 
lying about. Maria was having her first lessons now, 
under the aegis of Ursula Finch. 

“Do have some sandwiches,” said the Princess, in- 
dicating a tray; “we don’t have luncheon until half- 
past twelve. You must be hungry. Do try that 
liqueur, we make it here from walnuts.” 

Humphrey poured some of the dark brown liquid 
into a glass, and tasted it. “It is delicious,” he told 
her. “But I have never apologized for descending 
upon you at such an unconscionably early hour. The 
other train, however, would have brought me here 
so late I should have felt I had missed a whole day.” 

Now that he was actually in the house he had quite 
an impatient longing to see Ursula again. To see 
her for once happy and untired. The Princess had, 
297 


URSULA FINCH 


298 

as he knew, a naturally sweet disposition; she liked 
to feel that those about her were contented, and she 
was certain to have taken special pains to secure 
Ursula’s happiness, because she knew so well all 
that the girl had suffered in Rome. And he wanted 
to see Miss Finch thus, under these new and favor- 
able conditions. He had an idea that she might 
prove very attractive indeed, even dangerously at- 
tractive. 

“Oh, you’d like to see the children, I know,” she 
said, touching an electric bell. “I’ll send a message 
to Miss Finch to bring them both down. I didn’t 
intend her to have anything to do with Gigi, but he 
has taken an immense fancy to her.” 

He had an uncomfortable feeling that she could 
read his thoughts, and had discovered how deeply 
they were engrossed with Miss Finch. 

And yet — would she ever seem again half so beau- 
tiful and brave to him as she had done at Pentarn, 
with the long green waves of the Atlantic curling 
and breaking into white foam at her feet? He could 
always visualize her in those surroundings, with the 
sea-gulls flying and crying above her head. A shabby 
small figure in her worn blue serge dress, yet with a 
face that had an odd power to haunt him. 

There was a little stir outside the door which was 
pushed open to admit Maria, who came running 
eagerly in, followed more demurely by the stout Gigi 
and Ursula Finch. 

She was so greatly changed that it gave Humphrey 
a little shock to see her under this new aspect. Never 
had he seen her look so well, so girlish, and so pretty. 
Youth had come back to her. There was a soft and 
pretty color in her face, and her grey eyes were shin- 
ing like stars, like rare and brilliant grey jewels. 
Her black hair was simply but very carefully ar- 
ranged. And she was no longer so heart-rendingly 


URSULA FINCH 


299 

shabby. The Princess had no doubt seen to that, 
and had replenished that scanty wardrobe. 

“I’m glad to see you looking so much better for 
the change up here,” was all he could find at first to 
say. 

“Yes, I’m very well, thank you,” she said. 

“It’s a beautiful place, and the air’s delicious. 
Better even than Pentarn. But perhaps you miss 
the sea?” 

“Not as much as I used to,” she assured him. 

“You must go to the top of the hill one day while 
you are here,” said the Princess to Humphrey; “the 
view is wonderful on a clear day. You can see the 
Carrara mountains.” 

“Yes, I’d like to see everything,” he said, a trifle 
absently. 

“Miss Finch is indefatigable. You must help her 
to exercise Maria,” said the Princess, with lazy good 
nature. 

He began to talk about Pentarn. “My people are 
going back to the Abbey this winter. My father is 
thinking of buying it. He likes the Cornish climate. 

“You’re not staying in Italy this year?” 

“No. My father isn’t very fit, he’s asked me to 
go back. I am going to Florence for a few days on 
Monday, and then I shall start for home.” 

Monday. Then his stay at the villa would only 
last four days. Ursula felt a sudden reasonless dis- 
appointment. 

“You see. I’ve hardly been at home all the sum- 
mer.” 

“No?” she said. 

She was thinking: “So he’s going back to Pentarn. 
He’ll see the sea and the coast, and St. Faith’s with 
the Island sheltering it from the Atlantic. He’ll hear 
the gulls crying — .” It caught at her heart with an 
ineradicable nostalgia. 


300 URSULA FINCH 

The Princess seemed to read her thoughts. She 
said lightly : 

“You mustn’t make Miss Finch homesick by talk- 
ing about Pentarn!” 

“fou won’t soon be taking a run home yourself?” 
inquired Humphrey. 

Why on earth didn’t they send for her now that 
Daphne was so rich ? 

“But I couldn’t possibly spare her!” The Prin- 
cess spoke affectionately, and she stretched out a slim 
hand and touched Ursula’s shoulder. “Maria is be- 
ginning to speak English quite well. And we never 
have any tears over our lessons now, do we? Miss 
Finch is my right hand.” 

She had a kind, instinctive wish to show Humphrey 
that she valued Ursula. 

The girl said quietly: “I don’t suppose I shall 
ever go back to Pentarn.” 

It hurt her to feel that she was almost forgotten 
there, and that if they thought of her at all now it 
was with anger. But they didn’t really care, they were 
just indifferent. Daphne doubtless afforded them 
ample consolation for the shortcomings of herself 
and Nicholas. Poor Nicholas I Where was he now ? 
What was he doing? 

“Oh, but I venture to prophesy that you will!” 
Humphrey said. 

Now it was time to take little Maria away until 
luncheon was ready. Humphrey was left alone 
again with his hostess. 

His manner to Ursula had baffled her a little. She 
felt that he certainly took a very special interest in 
her, and she wondered if it would be quite wise to 
throw them much into each other’s company while 
he was staying there. The position was extraordi- 
nary and somewhat unconventional, but then, after 
all, had not Ursula’s own sister married Lord 


URSULA FINCH 


301 


Cheam? He was a far more important personage 
than Humphrey Willmot. 

The Princess had not, however, to cope with a 
situation that promised to be difficult. That same 
day when they were all at luncheon a telegram for 
Ursula was brought into the room. She took it, as- 
tonished and a little frightened, for she had never 
received such a thing before in her life. Who could 
it be from? She looked toward the Princess, who 
said quietly, “Do open it. Miss Finch, and see if you 
wish to send an answer.” 

Ursula tore it open with fingers that trembled a 
little. She felt that Humphrey’s eyes were upon her. 

The message was brief and ran as follows : 

“Do come. Am bored and miserable. I hear you 
are near. Don^t fail me. Daphne.** 

An address — that of an hotel in Florence — ^was 
given. 

“No, there isn’t any answer. I must think it 
over.” Her face was perplexed. “It is from 
Daphne — from my sister. She is in Florence, and 
wants me to go to her.” 

“To go to her? But, my dear Miss Finch, I 
really can’t spare you.” There was dismay in the 
Princess’ tone. What did Lady Cheam mean by 
telegraphing to Ursula in this way? She had always 
imagined that the two sisters could not be on the 
best of terms ; they did not correspond, and she had 
come to the conclusion that Lady Cheam in her new 
life had no room for the little sister who had been 
sent to earn her own living in Italy. 

She turned to Ursula : 

“We must talk it over after luncheon, and see 
what you had better do. Of course, if your sister 
really wants you I mustn’t, I suppose, keep you from 
going.” 

She had, however, a very strong private conviction 


302 


URSULA FINCH 


that Ursula had no wish to go to Florence. She felt 
annoyed that Lady Cheam should send for her in this 
peremptory manner. 

When the meal was over they adjourned to the 
Princess’ sitting-room and Humphrey went out into 
the loggia to smoke, thinking that they would prob- 
ably wish to discuss the matter in private. Little 
Maria was fetched by the nurse. As Ursula passed 
out of the dining-room Humphrey, who was holding 
the door open, murmured in a low tone : 

“But you mustn’t really go away. Miss Finch. It 
would be too bad of you when I’ve only just come I” 

Although he spoke in his light, disdainful way, as 
if nothing could really incommode him or had power 
to pierce his armor of slightly egoistic detachment, 
the words sent a little thrill through Ursula. They 
made her believe — as he had once before at Pentarn 
made her believe — that her comings and goings were 
of actual importance to him. Long ago she* had con- 
quered all her illusions on this point, and yet to-day 
there was something in his face and manner that 
stirred anew the ancient hope, and made her heart 
beat more quickly. He didn’t want her to go away; 
perhaps he had even come hither feeling a certain 
pleasure that she was to be there and that he would 
see her. And now Daphne had sent for her, a short 
peremptory message that had called into life again 
all Ursula’s old sense of immediate obedience. Hum- 
phrey’s kindly meant words had made a lump rise 
in her throat, and she felt too that the tears were 
springing to her eyes. She did not want to go, just 
now, while he was here. She had believed that just 
for these few days she would see him every day, hear 
his voice, experience the old glamor that his very 
presence could produce. 

She had been for too many years immolated upon 
the shrine of Daphne’s comfort. Daphne’s well-be- 


URSULA FINCH 


303 


ing. Their paths were far apart. What had she, an 
obscure nursery-governess, to do with Lady Cheam? 

She became aware that the Princess was speaking 
to her. 

“Now tell me,” she said kindly, “do you really 
want to go to Florence to see your sister? I can 
spare you perfectly well for a few days if you wish 
to go. The nurse can look after Maria.” 

This might, indeed, prove to be the beginning of 
a rapprochement between Ursula and her family. It 
might mean that Lady Cheam intended to release 
her from the obligation of earning her own living. 
If so, she felt that she could not possibly stand in her 
way. It would be selfish and inconsiderate to do so. 

“I don’t want to go at all,” said Ursula, speaking 
with difficulty. In spite of all her efforts the tears 
rushed to her eyes. “But you know that I’ve always 
— all my life — had to do what Daphne wanted.” 

“Wouldn’t it do perhaps if I invited her to come 
here for a few days? You know we’ve quantities of 
spare room here.” 

“Oh, no — please not! I’d rather go to her than 
that!” 

“I dare say you are right. The question is 
whether you’d really better see her at all.” 

Ursula read the telegram over again. The typed 
words stood out with a Daphne-like emphasis. “Do 
come. Am bored and miserable, I hear you are 
near. Don^t fail me. Daphne J* 

“If you only knew how difficult it is for me to go 
against her,” said Ursula. She felt the chains of her 
old servitude. She was sewing for Daphne, cooking 
for Daphne, mending for Daphne. She was sitting 
up till two o’clock in the morning to finish some work 
for Daphne. It was not easy to break chains that 
had been forged through so many years of patient, 
assiduous toil. And Daphne wanted her now. 


304 


URSULA FINCH 


“Suppose you went for a week?” suggested the 
Princess. “I am sure I can spare you for a week.” 

“A week,” r^eated poor Ursula. 

Humphrey Vv illmot would have gone to England 
before her return. Could she — could she make the 
sacrifice? It was a small but heavy one. But per- 
haps it was required of her. 

“I don’t want to go at all. I’d far, rather stay 
here. I’m only afraid of seeming selnsh, uncaring.” 

The Princess could have stamped with impatience. 

“When you’ve been a slave to her all your life I” 
she said, indignantly. 

Ursula was astonished into saying: “Why, how 
did you know?” 

“Mr. Willmot said something about it to me once. 
He said she was the one completely selfish woman he 
had ever known. That is no doubt the reason why 
she has sent for you now. If she really wanted you, 
if it were a case of sorrow or illness, it would be dif- 
ferent. This is a whim, a caprice. You can do just 
as you choose, but I am not going to let you be sac- 
rificed for more than one week.” The Princess 
spoke with determination. She liked Ursula and 
she had a strong wish to befriend her. She thought, 
too, it would be good for Daphne to know that her 
sister had a powerful friend. 

“Then perhaps I had better go to-morrow morn- 
ing. It’s too late to go to-day, isn’t it?” 

“It certainly is,” said the Princess; “but you can 
go to-morrow if you like. I will send a telegram this 
afternoon, and you must leave here at nine to-mor- 
row morning.” 

“Thank you,” said Ursula. She moved toward 
the door. “It’s very kind of you to let me go,” she 
said hesitatingly. She felt that she ought to thank 
her, and yet she wished with all her heart that she 
had put an uncompromising veto upon the scheme. 


URSULA FINCH 


305 


“I feel I oughtn’t to stand in your way if your sis- 
ter really wants you. She may wish to keep you per- 
manently with her, now her own circumstances are 
so altered.” 

Ursula nearly said: “You don’t know Daphne.” 
But she refrained. She went out of the room, and 
betook herself upstairs to pack. 

What would Daphne think of her now? Of 
course, she was better dressed than in the old days, 
thanks to the Princess. She did her hair differently 
and with more care. Since coming to Tuscany she 
was no longer so thin, thanks to the better food, the 
hours of leisure and rest, that had refreshed both 
body and mind. Her face was plumper and she had 
more color. But the great change, as she knew, was 
an interior one. She was a Catholic, and her religion 
had given her courage. She wasn’t afraid of people, 
of what they might say, of what they might think 
and do. But if she had not been a Catholic she 
would not have gone to Daphne now. She would 
have refused quite simply because she did not wish 
to go. Now she was going just because it did cost 
her so much, because she did not dare reject this op- 
portunity of self-sacrifice. It meant that she must 
leave Mintella while Humphrey was staying in the 
house, although he had asked her to remain. She 
slipped down upon her knees, crossed herself, and 
said a brief prayer. God so seldom asked or ac- 
cepted a real sacrifice. It was a test of the soul’s 
strength. And this was one that had power to hurt 
her. She had the strong feeling that her life was 
being shaped by other Hands, and that her part was 
to obey, to conform. It wasn’t only for Daphne’s 
sake that she was going away ; she was not even quite 
sure that it was on Daphne’s account at all. 

She began to pack the few things she would re- 
quire. When she came back to the villa next week 


3o6 


URSULA FINCH 


Humphrey would have gone. She must give up 
thinking of him, dreaming of him. Always when he 
came he had this terrible power to fill all her 
thoughts, as if he had taken possession of her very 
life. And she loved him. To-day she had been 
afraid to meet his eyes lest he should read her secret. 

When she came back Humphrey would have gone. 
It was quite possible that she might never see him 
again. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


T N the morning it was barely light when Ursula, 
^ having finished her dressing and packing, went to 
fetch little Maria to go down to the chapel. The 
child was not quite ready and Ursula had to wait a 
few minutes for her. They entered the chapel to- 
gether, and sat in their usual seats. The priest came 
in and began to say Mass. When Ursula raised her 
head she saw that Humphrey Willmot was kneeling 
not far from her. 

It gave her a sudden sensation of joy to see him. 
Although she remembered that he had once told 
her he had never become a Catholic because it would 
meet with so much opposition if he were to do so, 
she knew that he was not indifferent, that he under- 
stood and appreciated the Catholic religion. She of- 
fered a little prayer now for his conversion. It was 
the one thing he needed to make him quite perfect. 

To-day Ursula felt strong and full of courage and 
confidence. She meant to be, all through her life, a 
cheerful giver. She would make such sacrifices as 
were demanded of her, eagerly, and not grudgingly 
or of necessity. She would not measure their price 
of pain too closely. 

All through mass she knelt down, a devout and 
recollected figure. When it was over she rose to 
leave the chapel. She had not much time to spare, 
and she must have some breakfast before she left. 
As she went out of the door she saw that Humphrey 
was holding it open for her. 

He followed her down the long passage that led 
back into the house. 

“Will you allow me to say I am so glad that you 
have become a Catholic, Miss Finch?” he said, in 
rather a softer tone than usual. 

307 


3o8 


URSULA FINCH 


“Thank you,” said Ursula. “It has made me very 
happy,” she added, looking up at him. 

“I can see that,” he said. “You’ve changed very 
much, you know, since you left Pentarn.” 

“Havel?” 

“I dare say you have forgotten that once when we 
were there we discussed the question of religion.” 

“Oh, no — indeed, I remember it perfectly.” 

“Then perhaps you have not forgotten a remark 
you made ? It pleased me very much. I think that 
is why I remember it so well.” 

“What was it?” she asked. 

“You said I was the first person who had ever said 
anything to you in praise of the Catholic Church. I 
hope that I sowed the very first little seed of your 
conversion.” His eyes were bright and searching as 
they rested upon her now. They seemed to expect, to 
demand, an answer. 

Ursula was too honest and truthful to deny the ac- 
curacy of his conclusion. She said quietly: “I think 
you did, you destroyed some of my intolerance. You 
gave me Crashaw and Mrs. Meynell to read. They 
helped me, too. And when I went to Rome I re- 
membered what you had said about St. Peter’s.” 

He was silent for a moment. 

“I envy you. Miss Finch,” he said at last, in a 
quiet, thoughtful tone. “You have had the courage 
— the very great courage — to do what I’ve often 
wanted and never dared to do myself. And yet, I 
suppose you really stand to lose much more than I 
should by the step.” 

“I have lost my home,” said Ursula; “they have 
told me I am not to go back. It would be too much 
of a scandal for the rector’s daughter to return home 
as a Catholic. I quite see that they can’t receive 
me.” Her voice was steady. 

“I am sorry you are going away. I should like 


URSULA FINCH 


309 


to have heard much more about it. Just how you 
came, and when and where. The little things that 
make a conversion are psychologically so interesting. 
Only there is one thing no one can ever tell you, and 
that is just how they received the faith. We can 
only fall back upon the supernatural explanation that 
it was the infusion of grace that did it, the workings 
of the Holy Spirit in the soul that had uttered its 
humble petition to receive that faith. There have 
been cases too when it came unsought, as it did to 
St. Paul. People often say when they hear that a 
man’s become a Catholic: ‘What made him do it? 
Who has got hold of him?’ And the convert can 
give no logical explanation, in nine cases out of ten, 
for his action. He sometimes scarcely knows him- 
self how and when he crossed the boundary line be- 
tween faith and unfaith.” 

Ursula listened to this long speech with varying 
emotions. She felt that Humphrey must be very 
close to that boundary of which he spoke. 

“Sometimes I know we owe it to the prayers of 
others,” he continued, “and so I am going to ask 
you to pray for me. Miss Finch.” 

Her face wore a strangely-controlled expression. 
Then she said gravely: “But I always pray for you.” 

She moved toward the stairs. It was time for her 
to eat her breakfast or she would not be ready when 
the motor came for her. It cost her a little effort to 
leave him now. He seemed to need her help in 
some obscure way that she did not understand. His 
words, uttered with a kind of passionate eloquence, 
had moved her profoundly. 

Humphrey watched her as she went. Her little 
frank confession had at once startled and flattered 
him. He wanted to know much more, and at that 
moment he felt that he could not possibly let her go. 
What did Lady Cheam want with her now? It was 


310 


URSULA FINCH 


all part of her monumental selfishness that she 
should have sent for her sister just at this critical 
juncture. 

He felt furious with Daphne. 

The journey to Florence occupied less than two 
hours. As the train steamed into the station Ursula 
looked out of the window to see if she could discern 
Daphne waiting for her upon the platform. In her 
telegram she had told her what time her train would 
arrive. But there was no sign of Lady Cheam any- 
where, and Ursula, feeling slightly disappointed, 
took a cab and drove to the hotel on the Lung’ Arno 
where her sister was staying. 

Various servants emerged, as the cab stopped, 
and possessed themselves of her very modest lug- 
gage. She went at once to the bureau to ask for 
Lady Cheam. For, of course. Daphne would be in 
and waiting for her. 

“The lady is out — gone out for the day,” said the 
manager; “she will not be back till this evening — in 
time for dinner. And Milford has gone to Venice 
for a few days.” He made a regretful gesture. 

Ursula’s heart sank. Had she foreseen this she 
could have remained one day longer at the villa. 

“I am Lady Cheam’s sister,” she said. “I tele- 
graphed to say that I was coming. Did she leave 
any message for me?” 

He took a handful of letters from a pigeon-hole. 

“There is a telegram here for her, but it arrived 
after she had left.” 

“Perhaps you will kindly show me to a room? I 
am going to stay a few days with her.” 

Ursula felt suddenly hopeless. She blinked her 
eyelids to keep back the tears. All her high courage 
of the morning seemed suddenly to have deserted 
her. Daphne had not even troubled to wait for her 
answer. Her brief mood of boredom and misery 


URSULA FINCH 


311 


must have vanished. Perhaps she had met some 
friends, had joined them in some expedition. Ursula 
began to wish now that she had remained at the villa. 
The sacrifice had been quite useless. 

When she found herself alone in her room over- 
looking the river and close, as the manager informed 
her, to her sister’s sitting-room, she sat down and 
began to consider the matter. Why had Daphne 
sent for her? Why had Lord Cheam gone to Ven- 
ice without his wife? They had been married 
scarcely two months. Was the marriage already a 
failure? There had been a quarrel perhaps, and 
then Daphne, in disgust and weariness had tele- 
graphed for her. There could be no other possible 
reason. Daphne could never surely have learned 
of Humphrey’s temporary presence at the villa. She 
put that thought from her as an unworthy one. 
Daphne had simply sent for her because she had 
probably heard of her whereabouts from Pentarn, 
and was bored at the moment when she had written 
the telegram. But her ill-humor rarely lasted long. 
She was like a child who only needs to be shown a 
pretty toy to have its attention diverted from the 
cause of its transient woe. Someone had no doubt 
come to ’ roposed an expedition, and 



forgetting her hus^wid and 


Daphne 


Ursula, extracting all the enjoyment she could from 
the present hour. She was always like that. 

Ursula looked round her room. It was pretty and 
daintily furnished, and had a good view over the 
Arno. The green hills that stretched westward were 
very softly outlined against the pale blue of the De- 
cember sky. The sun shone on the picturesque 
houses and church-towers of Oltr’ Arno. The man- 
ager had given her this charming south room be- 
cause he knew that Lady Cheam could perfectly well 
pay for it. Ursula’s appearance had puzzled him a 


312 


URSULA FINCH 


little, she was so different from the exquisitely 
dressed and obviously wealthy and extravagant Lady 
Cheam. Still she was English; he believed what she 
said. 

She hated the thought of going down-stairs to 
lunch alone. The manager had informed her that 
luncheon was served at half-past twelve. Perhaps 
there would be a great many people, all strangers 
to her. Why had Daphne deserted her in this way? 
She had come, as quickly as she could, to be with 
her, and Daphne had coolly gone out and forgotten 
her. It was so like Daphne ; she ought to have ex- 
pected it. She ought to have been able to laugh in- 
stead of sitting there, vainly trying to repress her 
tears. Perhaps, she would have laughed at her pres- 
ent predicament if it hadn’t been for Humphrey. It 
had been like the sharp severing of something with 
a knife to leave the villa just after his arrival, to 
detach herself from the strange joy of being for the 
second time in her life under the same roof with him. 
And every word he had spoken to her had seemed to 
assure her that he was at least not indifferent to her 
presence there. It had even seemed sometimes to 
her that he had been endeavoring to recapture some- 
thing of the intimacy of those old talks they had had 
togethw** on the cliffs at Pentarn. But even now she 
would not let herself dwell upon the possibility, the 
hope, that he could ever cherish any deeper feeling 
for her. When that thought came she drove it reso- 
lutely away, because she knew of old its inherent 
power to diminish her courage. Yet he had seemed 
almost eager to learn that his own chance word had 
really played some little part in her subsequent con- 
version. 

“I must pray for him a great deal, and then he 
will become a Catholic,” she thought. She had 
longed to tell him, when he spoke of those early be- 


URSULA FINCH 


313 


ginnings of faith, how it came, like a sudden inex- 
plicable outpouring of burning consuming light, that 
tore the scales from one’s eyes by a fiery action that 
brooked no hindrance. That infusion of grace was 
almost like a fierce physical process that caused the 
blind to see. One understood then the mighty rush- 
ing wind, the tongues of fire, at Pentecost. She had 
wanted to urge him to pray that he might receive that 
faith. She longed ardently for his conversion. She 
had felt such joy at the knowledge that he had been 
in the chapel that morning. And there had been 
something wistful, almost envious, in his look as he 
spoke to her of her own conversion. Yes, he had 
envied her — her, Ursula Finch. Realizing, perhaps, 
that she possessed the one thing needful, the most 
abiding and precious riches of all. 

She unpacked her few things, arranging them with 
meticulous care in the great wardrobe and spacious 
chest of drawers. Her personal possessions were 
so few that they seemed almost lost in those immense 
receptacles. She wondered what Daphne would say 
when she came back and found her already installed. 
It was quite likely that she would not be in the least 
pleased to see her. She would be perhaps no longer 
in that bored and miserable mood which had inspired 
her to send for her sister. She might even show her 
that she was in the way. 

After luncheon Ursula went out for a walk. She 
visited some of the nearer churches, and walked as 
far as the Cascine, marveling at the exquisite 
glimpse of the snow-crowned Carrara mountains 
that was visible in the distance. Then back to the 
Ponte Vecchio and into the queer ancient tortuous 
streets of Oltr’ Arno. The afternoon was perfect, 
and the sun shone royally. There was a bright blue 
sky overhead with a few clouds traveling leisurely 
across its surface; the river was jade-colored with 
spaces of turquoise. In the mellow sunlight of late 


314 


URSULA FINCH 


autumn the honey-colored houses and rosy roofs and 
grey towers of Florence were warmed to a delicious 
glow that made them seem like jeweled things, 
wrought of topazes and rubies. Very fair were the 
low green hills, and as she climbed to higher ground 
and saw the wonderful city lying at her feet, stretch- 
ing away to Fiesole and Careggi and Settignano and 
the hundred beautiful hill-towns and villages that 
encircle Florence like a gleaming girdle of ivory and 
pearl, its loveliness became to her almost overpower- 
ing. It was exquisitely drawn, delicately painted. 
And in the midst of it stood the great Dome in tones 
of ruby and purple with the pale ivory shaft of 
Giotto’s tower standing beside it. Less splendid and 
dominating than St. Peter’s, perhaps, but possessing 
an individual and intimate beauty of its own. 

When it grew dusk she turned back into the hotel 
almost reluctantly. In reply to her inquiries she 
found that Lady Cheam had not yet returned. 
Ursula went up into her bedroom and sat down 
by the open window. The light had faded in the 
sky, and twilight had drawn her delicate violet veils 
over the city and the river. Lights showed from the 
town on the opposite bank, pricking the streets with a 
glow of soft illumination. 

At last she grew tired of sitting there alone, for 
she had brought no work and had nothing to read. 
She went down-stairs and sat in the lounge which 
was formed by a kind of inner hall, filled with chairs, 
large and small, and a number of little wicker- 
tables on which stood matches and ash-trays. Men 
and women were sitting about in groups, some smok- 
ing, some having tea. People passed continually 
through the lounge on their way to the elevator, and 
Ursula watched them with some interest. She 
noticed especially an English family consisting of a 
father and mother and two young daughters, all 


URSULA FINCH 


315 


very prosperous and well-dressed, and arrogant- 
looking as if they cherished a secret disdain of their 
surroundings. It was a characteristic that reminded 
her of Daphne. One of the girls stared at Ursula 
with a slow critical gaze that made her feel suddenly 
rather poor and dowdy. Then two young Italian 
officers passed through, wearing their handsome blue 
cloaks. They were talking and laughing in an ani- 
mated, excited way, and they too glanced at Ursula 
with a kind of bold admiration. Then more English 
people. ... A tall, elderly, obviously ex-army man, 
and his beautiful wife wrapped in costly furs. 

“I don’t suppose it’ll last six months, do you?” 
she said, as she walked on. “I heard he’d gone off 
in a tremendous, towering rage.” She spoke in a 
high sweet voice, and Ursula could not help hearing 
what she said. 

It gave her a pang of anxiety. Was she speaking 
of Daphne? For the second time she began to 
wonder about her sister’s marriage. Had it already 
proved an unhappy one? Wasn’t it a success after 
all ? Had a two-months’ trial sufficed to proclaim it 
a failure to all the world? 

And then Daphne herself, more lovely and more 
beautifully dressed than any of the preceding figures, 
came into the lounge, followed by a young man with 
very bright dark eyes whom Ursula recognized at 
once as Mr. Carter, the impecunious young artist 
who lived at St. Faith’s and who had been so desper- 
ately in love with her before her marriage. His face 
fell a little as he saw and recognized Ursula. 

“Daphne — I got your telegram — I came.” She 
had stumbled to her feet, had conie toward Daphne 
with something of her old deprecating half-apologetic 
attitude. 

She paused miserably. She had the feeling that 
Daphne was looking down upon her from an im- 
measurable height. 


3i6 


URSULA FINCH 


“Ah, I never thought you’d be able to get away,” 
she said, in a light tone. “I hope you haven’t been 
waiting too long. You remember Mr. Carter, don’t 
you? Let’s come up to my room.” 

She nodded to the young man who still seemed dis- 
comfited at the presence of Ursula. hientot!” 
she said to him, nodding carelessly. “Don’t forget 
you’re dining with me.” 

The two sisters disappeared together into the 
elevator, and Ursula could not help noticing that 
Mr. Carter stood there gazing up at it, as it vanished 
into the dark spaces above, with a foolish rather 
angry expression in his eyes. 

“It really gave me quite a shock to see you so 
suddenly,” said Daphne. “Why didn’t you let me 
know you were coming? Didn’t Princess What’s- 
her-name mind your racing off like this?” 

“No, not very much. And I did send you a 
telegram,” said Ursula, miserably. 

She wished with all her heart that she had not 
come. Ogni muta una caduta say the wise Tuscan 
peasants. Every change is a disaster — there was 
truth in the words. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


Tn those first few minutes Ursula became aware, 
* beyond all manner of doubt, that, however much 
Daphne had wished for her company yesterday when 
she had despatched the telegram, she had no need 
of it now, and even regarded her as very much in 
the way. She had discovered the presence of her 
ancient admirer in Florence, and she had now no 
further use for her sister. When Ursula realized 
this she felt a renewed sense of bitterness because 
her sacrifice had been made in vain. She had come 
away against the wishes of all the kind and good 
people at the villa, and her only reward had been 
to nnd herself de trop. She might have known it I 
Daphne would never change. The eldest Miss 
Finch, the spoiled beauty of Pentarn and St. Faith’s, 
and Lady Cheam were one and the same person, 
demanding of life only that they should be smartly- 
dressed, adequately amused, and daintily fed. 

They walked in silence down the long heated 
passage until they reached the suite of rooms that 
Daphne and her husband occupied. Daphne threw 
open the door, and flung herself into an armchair, 
yawning. 

‘^So you jumped at my invitation, Ursula,” she 
said. “I imagined somehow that you would be far 
too busy to come, as well as far too conscientious to 
ask for leave. I am glad they were not too tiresome 
about it.” 

“The Princess did not wish me to come. But she 
was very kind.” 

“You speak as if you were sorry to come away,” 
said Lady Cheam. “Is it such a delectable situation? 
I should have thought it must be tremendously boring 
317 


318 


URSULA FINCH 


out there in the country. Nothing to do all day and 
no one to talk to !” 

“I have a little girl to look after and teach. That 
keeps me fairly busy. And in my spare time I read 
a great deal.” 

“You would!” said Daphne, with a touch of satire. 
“Is it still Crashaw and Francis Thompson, or have 
you found other gods since Humphrey Willmot 
ceased to be your guide, philosopher, and friend?” 

Ursula was silent. At the mention of Humphrey’s 
name a faint flush stained her face. 

“Have you seen anything of him, by the way?” 
inquired Daphne. “He’s somewhere In Italy now, 
I believe. At least Mrs. Willmot said so in her last 
letter.” 

Ah, then she knew ! She had always known. Per- 
haps that was why she had sent the telegram. 

“I have seen him,” said Ursula, guardedly; “we 
met in Rome.” 

Daphne seemed to betray a slight increase of 
interest. 

“In Rome? Really? When you were with those 
dreadful Garroni people?” she asked. 

“No, it was just after I had left them.” 

“But he is not still there?” said Daphne. “I am 
sure his mother said he was coming to Florence on 
his way home. ' But she writes so illegibly, poor 
dear, that I never have time to make it all out!” 

There was a little note of disdain in her voice 
as she spoke of Mrs. Willmot. 

“He is not in Rome now,” said Ursula. 

“You are very mysterious! Why don’t you tell 
me where he is, if you really know?” 

“He is staying with Princess Cantarelli. I left 
him at the villa.” Ursula’s voice was strained. 

“At the villa?” repeated Daphne, with well-simu- 
lated surprise. “What on earth is he doing there?” 


URSULA FINCH 


319 


Ursula longed to say: “But you knew — surely 
you knew; that was why you sent for me!’’ She 
was silent, afraid perhaps that she might be tempted 
to utter the words. 

“I heard rumors that he was going to marry an 
Italian,” said Daphne, “but surely the Princess must 
be years older.” 

“She is thirty-four,” said Ursula, “but I am sure 
he isn’t going to marry her. She was devoted to 
her husband, and he has not been dead very long.” 

“Besides people spoke of a young girl — about 
eighteen, I think. Not a widow at all. Well, I wish 
you had persuaded him to come with you, Ursula. 
He is always a delightful companion, and he knows 
Italy by heart.” 

“He knew I was coming to see you,” said Ursula. 

Daphne lit a cigarette and began to smoke. “You 
are a strange girl, Ursula,” she said presently; “you 
have never once asked me if I am happy. Do you 
realize that I am a very important person indeed 
now?” 

“Yes,” said Ursula. She looked at her sister. 
Yes, Daphne was more beautiful now than she had 
ever been. She was dressed as never before, in 
clothes at once costly and simple. Those Russian 
furs she had been wearing when she came into the 
lounge had set off her fairness to perfection. Her 
hair was exquisitely dressed as if by very skilful and 
practised fingers. She wore a row of large fine 
pearls round her throat. Diamonds sparkled on her 
slim hands. She was further removed from Pentarn 
now than Ursula herself. 

“I hope you are happy. Daphne,” she said, after 
a few seconds’ quiet reflection. 

“Well, if you must know, I am not particularly 
happy just now. Cheam has a most vile temper, 
and he went off to Venice the day before yesterday 


320 


URSULA FINCH 


in a huff. I suppose I shall have to sit here till he 
comes back.” Her voice was cold and disdainful. 
“He has the most wonderful ways of making himself 
disagreeable. I really think sometimes he has re- 
duced it to a fine art I” 

“I am very sorry you are not happy,” said Ursula 
simply. 

“Oh, you really need not pity me,” said Daphne, 
with a laugh that did not ring quite true. “I have 
everything now that I ever wanted, and how few 
women can say that! Quantities of money — I can 
spend and spend and never come to an end of it. 
Before I used to feel just like those miserable little 
ragged children you see staring into sweet-shops. 
Cheam is never stingy, I will say that for him, it is 
fortunately not one of his faults. But he is jealous, 
and though that is amusing at first it becomes very 
wearing. He is years and years older than I am, 
and he gets so cross when he is taken for my father.” 
She laughed now quite merrily. “He might be my 
grandfather by a little stretch of the imagination, 
so he ought not to feel so hurt about it !” 

“I was afraid when mamma first wrote and told 
me of your engagement that you were making a mis- 
take,” said Ursula quietly. 

Daphne opened her large blue eyes very wide 
indeed. 

“But I have not made a mistake, you dear old 
goose,” she said, in a tone of surprise. “I am quite 
as happy as most women and probably, if the truth 
were known, a great deal happier. You see, I always 
know exactly what I want, and if it comes to me 
mixed up with a great many things I don’t care 
about, I am not going to ruin my complexion by cry- 
ing and thinking I have been deluded. I was con- 
sidered extraordinarily lucky to get Cheam, I, a girl 
without a penny and no connections I Y ou know that 


URSULA FINCH 


321 


mamma and I had quite made up our minds that 
I was to marry Humphrey Willmot. I won’t deny 
that I should have liked that. He attracted me 
very much, he is so good-looking and clever. Besides 
he was rich and was in a very good set. But I soon 
saw it would be foolish to think about him, for he 
hardly ever came near the house all the time I was 
there. I was hurt and angry at the time, but I met 
Cheam almost at once, and he proposed to me the 
following week. He isn’t much to look at, and of 
course he’s getting old, but then there is the title, 
and he is enormously rich. I am often astonished 
at my own luck. He has made a most generous 
provision for me ; you will hardly believe it but papa 
saw to that!” 

Daphne had finished her cigarette, and now she 
rose, went into the bedroom and rang for her maid. 
She seemed to place herself in the hands of this 
functionary with the docility of a little child. Ursula 
watched, half-fascinated, the way in which her hair 
was dressed. Presently Daphne stood before her 
in a black charmeuse dress, simply, almost severely, 
made, which set off her slender figure, her wonderful 
fairness. Ursula thought she looked almost regal. 

“By the way, Mr. Carter will dine with us. Have 
you got anything to wear? I’m afraid nothing of 
mine would be of any use.” She looked down at 
Ursula’s slight, small form with a kind of good-na- 
tured contempt. 

“Yes, I have a black dress the Princess gave me. 
It looks all right,” said Ursula. She knew of old 
that it didn’t matter in the least what she wore nor 
how she looked when she was with Daphne. No 
one had ever noticed her when her sister was present, 
except one man. 

“You remember Aubrey Carter, of course,” said 
Daphne, “he is just the same old dear he always wasl 


322 


URSULA FINCH 


It was really providential my coming across him 
yesterday evening when I was feeling very nearly 
bored to death.” 

“Won’t Lord Cheam mind?” said Ursula, hesitat- 
in 



“Mind? Mind what?” said Daphne, with a 
frown. 

“His going out with you — dining with you.” 

“Of course he will mind, as you call it, if he finds 
out. He is fiendishly jealous as I told you just 
now.” Daphne, having dismissed her maid directly 
she was dressed, now sat in front of the long mirror 
regarding her own image with an attentive com- 
placent scrutiny. 

“Then ought you?” 

“My dear child, we are not in Pentarn. And 
really now that I come to compare them Cheam’s 
rages are not half so bad as papa’s!” She laughed. 

There was a little pause during which Daphne 
dabbed some powder on her nose and gave a touch 
of scarlet to her lips. She was wonderfully lovely, 
Ursula thought. But there was something careless 
and reckless about her now that made her sister 
feel afraid. 

“Is there any news of Nicky?” she asked at last. 

“Oh, no. He’s gone to the bow-bows, naughty 
boy!” 

“Oh, Daphne!” 

“Oh, Ursula ! What’s the matter now?” 

“I mean, he may be starving!” 

“Trust Nicky not to starve! I’m glad they had 
the sense to send him out of the country. Fancy a 
disreputable brother descending upon one in Gros- 
venor Square.” 

“I wish I knew where he was. I should like to 
write to him.” 

“I dare say they have his address at Pentarn,” 
remarked Daphne. 


URSULA FINCH 


323 

“Doesn’t anyone care what becomes of him?” 
said Ursula, indignantly. 

“I suppose mamma does, but she never mentions 
him, she isn’t allowed to. Fancy being obedient like 
that! Now if Cheam ever forbade me to mention a 
particular subject or person he would never hear the 
last of them. Someone asked papa the other day 
how his son was, and he replied, ‘I have no son.’ ” 

Ursula’s heart ached for her brother. Some day 
she would find out where he was; she would write 
to him and send him money. If she had been in 
Daphne’s place, with so much at her disposal, she 
would long ago have paid his debts and entreated 
him to return. 

Daphne changed the subject of conversation. She 
had not cared for Nicholas because he had never 
been under the slightest illusion with regard to her. 
And he had not omitted to show her that this was 
the case. He had always preferred Ursula. 

“So you really like being a nursery-governess, 
Ursula? And did Humphrey know that he was 
going to meet you in that capacity?” 

“I suppose so. He knew that I was there.” 

“Did you see much of him?” 

“How could I? He only came yesterday. But 
we met at meals and I saw him in the chapel.” She 
said this expressly in order to prepare the way for 
the disclosure of her conversion. 

“In the chapel ? I suppose they are Roman Catho- 
lics ? Do they really insist upon your attending their 
services?” 

“They don’t insist. But I like to go. Daphne.” 

“You like to go?” She gazed at her sister with a 
long and curious scrutiny. 

“I am a Catholic myself. I was received while I 
was in Rome.” 

Ursula spoke in a steady voice and her eyes met 
Daphne’s squarely. 


324 


URSULA FINCH 


“A Catholic? Youf^ said Daphne, astonished. 

“Yes. It has made me very much happier, but 
that is only a small part of it. I feel that it’s the 
only thing that matters now in the world — to be a 
Catholic and a good one.” 

“Have you told them at home?” inquired Daphne, 
lifting her eyebrows. She had never regarded her 
sister as exceptionally pious. Of course, she had 
regularly done all that was required of her at Pen- 
tarn in the matter of attending services. It had 
formed part of her implicit obedience to the Powers 
that Be. But she had never thought of it as a 
voluntary action on Ursula’s part. 

“Have you told them at home ?” 

“Yes. They don’t like it. They don’t want me 
to go back to Pentarn. And, of course, I see that in 
any case it would put them in an awkward position,” 
said Ursula. 

“Of course they wouldn’t be likely to have you 
back after that. You have burned your boats with a 
vengeance, my dear!” 

Ursula was silent. 

“Fancy your doing anything so rebellious as that! 
You are coming on, my dear Ursula. But what on 
earth made you?” 

“I can’t explain. But I had to do it. Daphne.” 

“I’m really sorry,” said Lady Cheam; “it always 
strikes me as such a foolish thing to do. And 
Cheam’s nearly as bad as papa about it — he hates 
it so. He’ll never let you come to stay with us 
much.” 

“I don’t suppose I should have come in any case. 
I’m a very unimportant person. Daphne.” 

“Still you might have come to keep him amused. 
I’ve always had an idea you’d get on together, you’re 
both so very old-fashioned. But now he’ll never 
give you credit for having any sense.” She spoke 
almost regretfully. 


URSULA FINCH 


32s 


“I expect I shall stay in my present situation for 
some time, probably till the children get beyond 
my teaching.” 

“I am not snobbish,” said Daphne, “but I do dis- 
like to feel that my own sister is a nursery-governess. 
It makes my own beginnings seem so forlorn ! How- 
ever, I am glad you had the sense to live abroad, I 
can speak of my sister who lives in Italy without 
saying what you are doing there. So do not say 
anything about it in front of young Carter, please; 
do leave the poor child one or two illusions.” 

“Why should you care what he thinks?” said 
Ursula, with a touch of anger. 

Daphne looked surprised at the vehemence in her 
sister’s tone. 

“I happen to feel like it, that’s all,” she said coldly. 

If Ursula annoyed her too much she would send 
her back to-morrow. But no, she shouldn’t go to 
Mintella while Humphrey was there. She suspected 
Ursula of at least a warm interest in Humphrey, and 
the knowledge that he was staying in the same house 
had aroused her old jealousy. It was this knowledge 
indeed that had prompted her to telegraph for her 
sister. She had suffered a little through Humphrey; 
he had administered certain delicate blows to her 
pride. He had been aware of Ursula even when 
she herself was present. Of course, it was by a 
mere coincidence that he should have been staying 
in the same house as Ursula now. He could never 
have gone there on purpose to see her, the idea was 
too ridiculous. A little, plain, shabby, stupid girl 
like Ursula! Yet she had said that he had been in 
the chapel that morning. Did he approve of the step 
she had taken? Or, perhaps, he had been instru- 
mental in bringing it about? Once his mother had 
told her that Humphrey had been at one time very 
greatly attracted by the Roman Catholic religion, 
and she had felt thankful when the phase had passed 


URSULA FINCH 


326 

off. Daphne remembered this now. She thought 
to herself: “How could Ursula have had the cour- 
age? It’s the first time she’s ever gone against 
them at Pentarn. Yet she must have known they 
would never have her back again.” That was so 
like Ursula, she was unworldly to a degree that 
became mere folly. She, without a penny, could cut 
herself off in this way from the only home she had. 
Hadn’t she counted the cost at all? 

However, Daphne was never sufficiently interested 
in anyone to permit them to occupy her thoughts 
for long. She said, with a half-bitter little smile: 
“Would you think to look at me now that I had the 
sword of Damocles waving above my fair hair at 
this moment? Cheam may return at any moment, 
and in his present mood he is a terrible kill-joy 1” 

She had hardly completed her sentence when the 
door opened abruptly, and a short, rather spare, 
elderly man with a bald head and wearing pince-nez 
came into the room. His face was thin and yellowish 
and he had a long sharp nose. 

“Am I to understand you are referring to myself. 
Daphne?” he inquired, in a bland sub-acid tone. 

Daphne shrugged her shoulders. She did not 
seem in the least startled. 

“Just as you please,” she said indifferently; 
“though it is hardly worth while discussing it now. 
We mustn’t quarrel in front of Ursula, it would 
shock her dreadfully. Cheam, this is my sister, 
Ursula. She is a nursery-governess at present to 
Princess Cantarelli’s children.” 

Ursula rose and shook hands with her brother-in- 
law. He looked older even than she had expected. 
It was small wonder that he was often taken for 
Daphne’s father. 

“When did you come?” he said to Ursula. 

“To-day.” 


URSULA FINCH 


327 

“It’s the first time you’ve seen your sister since 
her marriage, I suppose?” 

“Yes.” 

“You weren’t at the wedding. There was a little 
girl — Ruth. Short frocks, rather delicate-looking.” 

“Yes. Ruth is the youngest.” 

“He would like to know if you think I have im- 
proved.” Daphne’s voice was mocking. “But you 
need not answer all his questions, Ursula.” 

“I am ready for dinner if you are,” said Lord 
Cheam. “Miss Finch will dine with us, of course.” 

“Yes, and I have asked an old friend of ours to 
meet her. A young artist from Pentarn called 
Carter,” said Daphne. 

“I will go and get ready,” said Ursula, thankful 
to escape. 

She went out, leaving them alone together. “How 
strange they are,” she thought to herself. “Papa 
and mamma were never like that. Even when they 
had rows they always seemed to like each other.” 

Lord Cheam had given her the impression of al- 
most hating Daphne. Of course she cared nothing 
for him, but she loved the material ease and comfort 
that he was able to give her. Their marriage already 
was a tragic failure, and yet Daphne seemed per- 
fectly contented. She had known, as she said, exactly 
what she wanted, and she had received it. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


L ord Cheam walked restlessly up and down the 
^ hotel sitting-room. He had been rather relieved 
than otherwise to find his wife ensconced there with 
her own sister; it was hardly what he had expected. 
But it was the first time that he had heard of the 
position that Ursula occupied in Italy, and the fact 
that she was in such a dependent situation annoyed 
him. But then Daphne had never been frank with 
him about her own family. She had never even 
told him about Nicholas, and he had heard the story 
from a third person. Her want of frankness, her 
persistent endeavor to keep him in the dark about 
many little things that concerned her, were a per- 
petual source of irritation to him. 

“I wish you would not walk up and down the room 
like that,” said Daphne, breaking the silence; “you 
remind me of something in its cage.” 

He paid no attention to her remark, and continued 
to pace up and down the room. At last he said : 

“Your sister is very pretty. Daphne, and she is 
charming-looking too.” 

“Oh, we are all of us all right to look at, if it 
comes to that,” responded Daphne, cheerfully. 

She glanced at herself in the mirror, and knew 
that to the most angry and affronted husband she 
must appear beautiful. 

“I do not care to have my sister-in-law earning 
her bread in such a subordinate position,” he con- 
tinued; “we must put an end to it. Now that you 
are married she ought to go home.” 

“Oh, it’s no good your thinking of that. They 
wouldn’t have her!” 

She could see by his slightly alarmed expression 
that he believed he had chanced upon another family- 
328 


URSULA FINCH 


329 

skeletori. The thought delighted her. She took a 
special pleasure in provoking him. 

“Why won’t they have her ?” he asked. “Has she 
had to leave the country, too?” 

“Oh, no, Ursula has done nothing disgraceful,” 
said Daphne, “but since she has been abroad she 
has very foolishly become a Roman Catholic. That 
is one of the seven deadly sins at Pentarn, you know. 
Its punishment is always social ostracism.” 

“A Catholic? You never told me your sister 
was a Catholic!” 

“I happened not to know it myself, until this 
evening,” said Daphne, coolly. “Ursula and I don’t 
correspond. Still, it was a fool thing to do, for it 
has shut the door of the only home she’s got in the 
world against her.” 

Lord Cheam felt aggrieved. He had liked the 
look of Ursula, discerning in her the presence of 
those sterling qualities which his wife so sadly lacked, 
and he had hoped that she might have a good influ- 
ence over Daphne. But he was bitterly prejudiced 
against the Church. 

“Catholic or not I don’t choose to have your 
sister earning her living as a nursery-governess,” 
he said at last. 

“Do not let it disturb you,” said Daphne. “Ur- 
sula has absolutely no qualifications for any sort of 
post. We were thankful when she had the chance 
of coming to Italy. She seems to like her present 
place, it is a better one apparently than the one she 
had in Rome.” 

“There is not the slightest reason for a sister of 
yours to earn her own living at all!” said Lord 
Cheam. 

Daphne opened her blue eyes very wide. 

“If she likes to do it I am certainly not going to 
try to prevent her,” she said; “and I strongly advise 


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you not to interfere. Ursula is proud and head- 
strong, and mamma says she was always difficult to 
deal with. She used to say, too, it would be simply 
fatal for her to be idle. I am quite sure she was 
right. The first time she gets a moment to herself 
she goes and becomes a Roman Catholic. If you 
only knew how we had all been brought up you 
would be amused to think she ever had the courage.’’ 

They went down to dinner. In the lounge young 
Carter was standing with a gloomy expression upon 
his dark face. He hoped that perhaps Daphne had 
managed to shunt her sister somewhere for the eve- 
ning, but when he beheld her approaching, accom- 
panied by her husband as well as by Ursula, he felt 
defrauded. He had looked forward to a solitary 
dinner with Lady Cheam. Was that really her hus- 
band; that old man? His disappointment was very 
visible in his face as he came toward the little group. 

Lord Cheam took scarcely any notice of him; it 
was a means he frequently employed for expressing 
his disapproval of the presence of some unnecessary 
young man. Fortunately, for his own peace of 
mind, he had never been to Pentarn, Daphne had 
carefully prevented that, so he had never had the 
opportunity of hearing any gossip about his wife and 
Aubrey Carter. 

It did not prove a successful party. Lord Cheam 
was obstinately silent, and sometimes regarded the 
artist through his pince-nez with an intentionally dis- 
dainful expression. Ursula felt shy and confused, 
she could hardly believe that she was really there 
with Daphne under these new and changed condi- 
tions. The conversation was maintained chiefly by 
Lady Cheam, who seemed quite undisturbed by her 
husband’s latent hostility which was so perceptible to 
everyone else. She talked almost all the time to 
Aubrey Carter, and they discussed Vallombrosa and 


URSULA FINCH 


331 


Camaldoli, which they appeared to have visited to- 
gether that day. Ever}^ moment Lord Cheam’s face 
became more threateningly gloomy. And Ursula 
was not slow to perceive that Daphne was purposely 
trying to arouse his jealousy. It had always amused 
her to provoke people. She had done exactly the 
same thing at home to arouse her father’s swift 
anger. Why couldn’t she try to make people happy 
instead of miserable? 

During the meal Lord Cheam, who was consist- 
ently silent and appeared deeply pre-occupied, was 
slowly making up his mind to invite Ursula to remain 
with them, at any rate, for the present. It was 
absurd for his wife’s sister, a young and pretty girl, 
to work for her living, especially in such a subor- 
dinate position. It was neither just nor fair, and 
there was no longer any necessity for her to do it. 
And she did not look in the least proud and head- 
strong or difficult to deal with, as Daphne had de- 
scribed her. Her quiet lady-like manner pleased 
him. Of course it was a great pity she should have 
become a Roman Catholic, but surely, whatever her 
religion, she would have a good influence over 
Daphne. He was devoted to his wife, was still 
ardently in love with her, but her selfishness, her 
recklessness, and her rapacity had already severely 
disillusioned him. 

“We’ll have our coffee upstairs,” said Daphne, 
when dinner was at last over. 

As she rose to leave the room many eyes were 
turned toward her. She was the most striking-look- 
ing as well as the most beautiful woman there. In 
that plain severely-cut dress of hers and the broad 
black hat which revealed so little of her hair, she 
looked like a young queen. Ursula followed her, a 
demure figure in black. As they passed toward the 
elevator Daphne whispered to her : 


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URSULA FINCH 


“Do for goodness’ sake try to keep Cheam in a 
good temper. Talk to him^ — you were as silent as 
a mouse during dinner.” 

Presently she found herself near her brother-in- 
law in the private sitting-room upstairs. 

“I hope you- are not obliged to hurry back,” he 
said, almost at once. “I don’t know how long 
Daphne has asked you to stay, but I should be very 
glad if you could remain with us for the next few 
months. We shall be abroad all the winter, and we 
mean to go on to Rome and then to Naples and 
Sicily. In the spring we shall go to the south of 
France. I have a villa near Nice.” 

For a few minutes Ursula was silent. She was 
taken aback at the suddenness of the suggestion, 
especially after what Daphne had told her about 
her husband’s dislike to the Roman Catholic Church. 
Once, at Pentarn, for instance, the invitation would 
have seemed to her too good to be true — the 
thought of going abroad, of traveling in luxury and 
comfort. But now she had found a niche where she 
was happy, tranquil, useful and at peace. She was 
considered and appreciated. She loved the Princess 
and her children. She had spent such calm beautiful 
days at the ancient villa at Mintella, and she was 
aware that it had done much to heal her old wounds, 
had compensated her for that past time of protracted 
distress and suffering. 

And yesterday, before Daphne’s telegram came, 
she had felt almost madly happy. They had torn 
her away from that, but they could not surely insist 
upon her remaining with them. 

“I am asking you to come less for your own sake 
than for Daphne’s. I am sure she would prefer to 
have her sister with her.” 

He looked at Ursula almost entreatingly. Of 
course, the girl could not possibly be so foolish as to 


URSULA FINCH 


333 


refuse. She could not really like the life she was 
leading. She must be seen and introduced, there 
was no reason why she should not make a good 
marriage. And if she remained with them she should 
have every opportunity of so doing. 

“I should have to think it over,” said Ursula. “I 
could not decide all at once. But it is very kind of 
you to wish it.” 

“We both wish it,” he said briefly. 

“Has Daphne told you that I am a Catholic? 
Wouldn’t that make any difference?” she said. 

In her heart she hoped that he did not know, and 
that the knowledge would make him retract his 
invitation. 

He smiled. “Yes, she did say something about it. 
I know how fatal Rome can be to the young and 
inexperienced. I should dislike it very much if you 
were to try to convert my wife, but I am convinced 
there is no danger of that — she has absolutely no 
leanings toward any form of religion I” 

He looked across the room at his wife. She was 
sitting on the sofa, talking in an animated manner to 
young Carter who could not keep his eyes from her 
face. He had been desperately in love with her in 
the old Pentarn days, and gossip had even declared 
that they were secretly engaged. But after the com- 
ing of Humphrey Willmot to the neighborhood 
Daphne had deliberately snubbed him ; and the young 
man had left St. Faith’s for good the very day that 
her engagement to Lord Cheam had been announced. 
Ursula felt a little frightened as she looked at them 
now. The situation seemed to her so full of danger, 
and Daphne was curiously excited; her eyes were 
very bright. 

Ursula could understand now why it was that 
Lord Cheam wished her to join them. It was to 
shelter Daphne, by the mere fact of her presence, 


334 


URSULA FINCH 


from evil tongues. In two months he had no doubt 
been able to take an accurate measure of her folly. 
No one on earth had ever had the slightest control 
over her, and now she was the typical beggar-on- 
horseback. Of course, he had contributed to her 
folly by acceding to her father’s request and settling 
a large sum of money upon her on their marriage 
day. She could do exactly what she liked with the 
income that was derived from it, and if Mr. Finch 
had ever thought she would repay him for the 
enormous debts she had contracted as a girl he was 
very much mistaken, as he soon afterward discov- 
ered. He had been obliged to make a private appeal 
to Lord Cheam who had sent him a check for the 
amount none too willingly. The episode had given 
him an insight into his wife’s character, which was 
far from being an agreeable one. He was aghast 
at her spendthrift ways. She did nothing to help 
her parents, and it had formed part of his original 
intention in giving her this money that she should 
be able to do so without always appealing to him. 
She preferred to leave them in grinding poverty, 
refusing assistance even with regard to her girl- 
hood’s debts. She had offered Nicholas no help, 
assuring her husband when he questioned her on the 
point that her brother was a ne’er-do-well. Lord 
Cheam had heard quite a different account of the 
boy, but Daphne refused to allow him to give 
Nicholas any assistance. She was also perfectly 
satisfied that LFrsula should earn her own living as a 
nursery-governess. Clothes, jewels, and amusements 
were her passion, and she would pour out money 
lavishly to obtain them. He would have forgiven 
her all this if she had only cared for him, or if she 
had even been polite to him. 

It was to his credit that he had so quickly discerned 
the worth of Ursula whom Daphne had scarcely 
ever mentioned to him. 


URSULA FINCH 


335 


That night when Ursula had gone to her own 
room she heard a tap at the door and Daphne 
appeared. 

“Well, Ursula, has he told you that he wants you 
to come and travel with us?” 

“Yes,” said Ursula. 

She was sitting in front of the mirror brushing 
out her long hair of silken darkness. She was a little 
tired with all the excitements of the day. She felt 
as if she had been carried against her will into a 
new and strange world, where everyone spoke a 
different language and held different ideals. 

“What a quantity of hair you’ve got, Ursula,” 
said Daphne, regarding her attentively. “I do be- 
lieve it’s longer than mine. Well, what did you 
say?” 

“I don’t think I said anything. I thought I’d 
like to talk it over with the Princess first. Daphne. 
She has been so very kind to me. I shouldn’t like to 
leave her without a very good reason.” 

“Oh, I am sure you needn’t consider her. Just 
tell her you aren’t going back. Say that I want you. 
You’ll have plenty of money while you’re with us, 
and I’ve got simply heaps of clothes that I’m sick 
of and which you can have.” 

Ursula looked at her sister with grave eyes. 

“Do you really want me, Daphne?” 

“Yes, I think it’s a good scheme. Quite a brain- 
wave on the part of poor old Cheam. You wouldn’t 
hate it, would you, Ursula? A third person would be 
the saving of us !” She laughed a little bitterly. 

Daphne’s reasons were never simple ; they were on 
the contrary often very complicated. Ursula might 
prove at times very much in the way; especially if 
she were conscientious. On the other hand, her 
presence, her loyalty (a quality which could always 
be counted upon), would allay Cheam’s jealous 
suspicions and keep him in a good humor. Ursula, 


URSULA FINCH 


336 

if she played her cards well, under Daphne’s di- 
rection, might prove a most useful adjunct to their 
little party. And at the back of her mind she had 
another reason which she was certain no one could 
possibly be sufficiently brilliant to discover, and 
which arose from a jealous dislike that Ursula should 
return to the house where Humphrey Willmot was 
staying. It was inconceivable, of course, that he 
should think of Ursula, but he was unlike other men 
and seldom cared for women whom everyone else 
admired. It would have tormented Daphne griev- 
ously to see Ursula happily married to a man who 
had remained cold, despite all possible encourage- 
ment and opportunity, to her own charms. 

On the day upon which she had sent her sister that 
telegram she had received two letters. One was 
from her mother telling her that Ursula had been 
dismissed from the Garronis and was now living 
with Princess Cantarelli at Mintella, in Tuscany; 
and the other was from Mrs. Willmot who said they 
were^ expecting Humphrey home very shortly ; he 
was just leaving Rome and was to stay a few days 
with his old friend. Princess Cantarelli, at Mintella, 
on his way. It was a strange little coincidence and 
Daphne had profited by it to send for her sister 
immediately. 

She was astonished that Ursula should have come 
so quickly, so meekly. She had evidently suspected 
nothing. 

And if at any time the arrangement didn’t prove a 
success it would be perfectly easy to get rid of her. 
Nothing so easy in all the world as to accomplish 
that ! There was nothing of the limpet or the leech 
about Ursula ! A look was almost enough to frighten 
her away. How submissive she had been about her 
first departure for Rome with Madame Garronil 
Not a word of remonstrance or of mutiny had es- 


URSULA FINCH 


337 


caped her. Just that pale acquiescence that made 
you almost doubt whether she understood. Only her 
red eyes told you that she did care, and had wept in 
private over that unattractive, unpropitious fate I 

“I — I could go back to Mintella at once and talk 
it over with the Princess,” said Ursula at last, be- 
ginning to plait up her long hair. 

Daphne frowned. 

“What nonsense ! Where would be the use? We 
shall be leaving Florence very soon — I half thought 
of going on somewhere to-morrow. So, in any case, 
there wouldn’t be time for you to go there. You can 
go or stay, my dear Ursula, but do, please, make up 
your mind. You are not flatteringly eager to be 
with me again, I must say !” 

“I must think it over,” said Ursula. 

All at once she felt that she had been captured 
by Pentarn webs. They were closing about her, so 
tightly that they hurt her. She had been a slave to 
Daphne for so many years, and now they were invit- 
ing her to return to that slavery, after a first taste 
of comparative freedom. She had been happy at the 
old villa, surrounded by consideration, comfort, and 
kindness, and she knew quite well that she could 
never be happy with Daphne. It would be precisely 
the same ancient slavery, under new conditions. But 
the chains would not be less heavy, less galling. She 
could have cried out in rebellion. 

Daphne went toward the door. She could see by 
Ursula’s expression that her point was won. 

“Good-night, Ursula. I really want you, and we 
both hate to think of you wasting your life as 
nursery-governess to those foreign brats!” 

She went away laughing. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


W HEN her sister had gone Ursula went to the 
window and looked out. The night was not 
cold and the stars were wonderfully bright. On the 
opposite side of the river the old houses of Oltr’ 
Arno showed innumerable clusters of lights that 
spread away beyond the Roman Gate to the hills of 
San Miniato and Bellosguardo. The lamps on the 
old bridge too made a fiery chain between the two 
banks of the river. Carriages and motors were still 
clattering up and down the Lung’ Arno. At intervals 
she heard a scrap of song flung out beautifully from 
a natural tenor-voice that sounded almost melan- 
choly. But although she observed these sights and 
sounds quite attentively, her mind was full of 
Daphne’s proposal, almost to the exclusion of all 
other thoughts. 

Did they really want her? Why did they want 
her ? They pitied her perhaps because she was work- 
ing for her own living, because she earned little, 
and was so shabbily dressed. Yet, she felt that she 
was earning her money far more honorably than 
Daphne who had married for wealth, and wealth 
only. 

It would be a wrench to leave the villa. She had 
been very happy there, and the life suited her. 
Perhaps she had been too happy, and now she was 
to be called upon to serve God in other ways — 
harder, more difficult ways. She had no illusions 
on the subject of Daphne; it would not be an easy 
or a peaceful life. Often she would have — as she 
had had in the old days — a great deal to bear. 

It was late before she fell asleep that night, taking 
with her into her dreams the impression that the 
sacrifice she was invited to make was almost beyond 
338 


URSULA FINCH 


339 


her poor powers. She longed to get up early and 
creep out of the hotel, and go back to Mintella and 
beg the Princess to refuse to give her up. 

All through her dreams Daphne’s figure glanced 
in and out; she heard her light voice, and saw her 
mocking smile. 

The sun was pouring into her room when she 
awoke. It must surely be late. It was nearly nine 
o’clock, and Ursula dressed hastily and went to the 
Church of the Santissima Trinita to Mass. When 
she returned she had her coffee in the dining-room. 
All thoughts of escaping had left her. She had made 
up her mind to submit. While she was sitting there 
her brother-in-law came into the room. He ad- 
vanced to the table, greeted her in friendly fashion, 
and sitting down opposite to her he ordered his own 
breakfast to be brought. 

“Daphne says she talked over this proposal with 
you last night,” he said, regarding her with discon- 
certing attention through his pince-nez. “Have you 
come to any decision?” 

“I — I don’t know,” said Ursula. 

She crumbled her bread. Yes, she was weak, 
she was sure to give in. She hadn’t the courage to 
choose the path that promised a tranquil secure hap- 
piness. She was going to let them drag her away. 
In time, perhaps, they would actually take her back 
to Pentarn. 

“Daphne says she is sick of this place,” he said 
after a pause ; “she wants to go to Rome on Monday. 
I hope you will make up your mind to accompany us. 
I understand that you don’t wish to put your present 
employer to any inconvenience, but I know the Prin- 
cess and if you like I can write to her and explain 
matters. She is a woman of the world, and she will 
surely realize that your circumstances are now 
changed and that your sister has first claim.” 


340 


URSULA FINCH 


His eyes rested piercingly upon Ursula, who had 
the feeling that she was being hypnotized into a 
course of action that both alarmed and dismayed her. 

“Perhaps you are right,” she said slowly; “per- 
haps it is true that Daphne has first claim. It may 
be my duty to go with her.” 

“Your pleasure too, I hope,” said Lord Cheam, 
with the faintest note of rebuke in his voice. 

Ursula rose. “I will go and write to the Princess. 
She begged me not to be away longer than a week,” 
she said. 

Lord Cheam watched her as she went out of the 
room. 

“What an odd girl that is,” he thought to himself. 
“She doesn’t seem in the least elated at the prospect 
of being taken away from that drudgery and of 
living in luxury with us. Most people would have 
jumped at it!” ^ 

Ursula seemed to be the exact opposite to his wife 
in all things, in tastes as well as in appearance. She 
evidently cared nothing for money and luxury. She 
was simple, and proud, too, perhaps, preferring her 
independence. Still he was more than ever deter- 
mined that she should come to them. A second 
edition of Daphne would not have been of the 
slightest use to him. But Ursula, it was easy to see, 
had ideals of which Daphne knew nothing. He be- 
lieved — deluded man 1 — that Ursula would act as a 
restraint upon her sister, and keep the young Carters 
of this world at a respectful distance. 

He had been a little surprised to find that Daphne 
was almost as anxious as he was himself to secure 
Ursula. Probably she had some secret motive into 
which he had not been able to penetrate, but since 
it had led her to agree with his own wishes, he felt 
that it would hardly be worth while to inquire into 
it. Ursula, who had the most to gain by the arrange- 


URSULA FINCH 


341 


merit, was curiously enough the one to hold back, 
as if actuated by some private dislike to the prospect. 
And it was not, he reflected, as if she had been long 
enough in her present place to form a lasting attach- 
ment to the people, or to forge indissoluble links 
of friendship. She couldn’t have been there. Daphne 
had assured him, much more than two months. She 
could really find no difficulty about tearing herself 
away. She only surely needed a little persuasion to 
be convinced that they did need her. An excellent 
little creature, he thought, quite good-looking, too, 
though like all other women she seemed to suffer an 
eclipse when her sister was present. It was a pity 
that she had allowed herself to be sucked into the 
torrent of Roman Error! Part of her weakness, 
no doubt. She was of a yielding and docile disposi- 
tion, easily influenced. 

Ursula sat down at the writing-table and took up 
her pen. She must write the letter at once. It was 
no good delaying this disagreeable and difficult task. 
She was afraid that some symptom of disloyalty 
toward her sister might unwittingly betray itself in 
what she wrote. But she put the consideration of 
Daphne resolutely from her. It was not really for 
Daphne’s sake alone that she had left Mintella and 
come to Florence, just as it was not entirely for 
Daphne’s sake that she had made up her mind now 
not to return to that beloved abode of comfort and 
peace. It was a duty, a task, which God demanded 
of her. If God required of her that she should 
remain and help Daphne in a critical and rebellious 
hour, she must not think of herself nor of her own 
pleasure. Always she wished to be the little servant, 
the poor servant, eagerly obedient to the divine will. 
She was no longer blindly self-sacrificing as she had 
been at Pentam, when she had simply obeyed a 
common feminine instinct of giving herself for 


342 


URSULA FINCH 


others. Now she could see the golden Purpose that 
animated all things. She had a strong sense, too, 
that if the sacrifice were to be offered at all it must 
be done willingly and readily. No delay, no holding 
back, no thought of personal pain, but a simple cast- 
ing aside of the nets to follow a path that was still 
unknown. Ursula was one of those chosen souls 
who eagerly learn hard lessons in detachment. 

She would not think of Humphrey. She would 
not permit herself to send him the simplest most con- 
ventional message. While he had been at the villa he 
had spoken, it is true, but few words to her, and yet 
even in those scant hours and during those brief 
meetings he had contrived to re-animate within her 
that ancient hope she had never dared for a moment 
to cherish. She had never permitted herself to be- 
lieve that he cared for her. Yet, sometimes, he had 
destroyed by word and look all her proud resolve to 
believe the contrary. There had been something in 
his glance, as it rested upon her face, that assured 
her she was not only dear to him but passion- 
ately dear. A remembrance of that night in Rome 
flashed back to her mind. The eagerness with which 
he had come to her help then, the warmth of his 
sudden greeting, had flung her back upon those 
very impressions she had tried to leave behind her 
with all other dear Pentarn things. Then his arrival 
at the villa two days ago, his entreaty — always more 
urgent than mere politeness seemed to dictate — that 
she might not go away. Now she was to detach 
herself deliberately from all further knowledge of 
him. She was to go where Daphne wished, where 
Daphne chose. The die was cast and she knew it, 
and she knew too that she was following the stern 
mandates of conscience. 

Then suddenly her soul rebelled. She felt half 
sick with anger that they should thus coolly demand 


URSULA FINCH 


343 


this sacrifice of her. They must be aware that she 
didn’t want to come ; in the first moments she had not 
tried to conceal her reluctance. They must know, 
too, that their gay worldly life had not the slightest 
attraction for her. She had found a little obscure 
place that satisfied all her needs. She was fond of 
the Princess, grateful to her for her understanding 
kindness, and already the children were devoted to 
her. She loved the daily Mass in the chapel which 
seemed to sanctify each new succeeding day. There 
was an atmosphere of simple holiness at the villa 
which was new to her and seemed to strengthen 
her spiritual growth. 

She chased these thoughts away and began the 
letter. It was quite short when finished, for she ex- 
plained matters as briefly as possible, only expressing 
her regret that she could not return because her 
sister needed her. She could not say how truly 
sorry she was, but the Princess would surely under- 
stand. She paused scanning the written words that 
seemed so cold, so ungrateful. Yet, if Humphrey 
were to see them she felt that his swift and accurate 
discernment would supply all that she had left unsaid. 

Only, of course, there would not be the slightest 
necessity for the Princess to show him the letter. He 
might even remain in ignorance as to the proposed 
change. Ursula felt herself too unimportant to be 
discussed. 

She folded the letter and putting it into an envel- 
ope sealed it down. It was done now. She was not 
going to look back, to cry over spilt milk. She 
remembered her old determination to be now and 
always a cheerful giver. 

Daphne coming into the room in an adorable robe 
of white silk and lace, with a dainty cap resting on 
her fair hair, encountered a perfectly normal and 
calm Ursula. 


344 


URSULA FINCH 


“Why, have you been out already?” she asked in 
surprise. 

“Yes. I have been to Mass.” 

“Have you htcomt devote as well as Catholic?” 
she asked with a hint of raillery in her voice. 

“Not nearly as devote as I should like to be.” 

Daphne raised her eyebrows. Then her glance 
traveled to the envelope lying there duly stamped. 

“Oh, have you written?” she asked eagerly. 

“Yes. IVe explained that I’m not going back.” 

“That’s all right,” said Daphne, with a look of 
relief. “You can’t think how delighted poor old 
Cheam will be. He has set his heart on having you 
with us, it will keep him in a good temper, I hope, 
for months to come! And you’ll have a ripping 
time, Ursula, the time of your life, I can promise 
you that. I always hoped that I should be able to 
do something for you 1” 

Ursula could have laughed to find herself thus 
thrust into the position of one who is to receive 
benefits. That she was conferring them would never 
enter Daphne’s head. She was either perfectly un- 
aware of the sacrifice Ursula was making or she was 
determined to ignore it. But where was the use of 
enlightening her ? 

“I rather thought your reluctance was a pose 
yesterday,” said Lady Cheam; “you are old enough 
to know now which side your bread is buttered on. 
You see you will never be allowed to go back to 
Pentarn now that you are a Catholic and it wouldn’t 
be much fun going through life as a nursery-gov- 
erness. You’ve had no education to speak of, and 
you could never hope to get a much higher post. 
And, by the way, Cheam says you are to have two 
hundred a year while you are with us, and, of course, 
all your expenses will be paid. You didn’t .expect 
more, did you, Ursula ?” 


URSULA FINCH 


345 


Daphne had immense faith in her husband’s 
capabilities of paying liberally when he wanted a 
thing. Ursula could ask for more if she chose. 

To her astonishment her sister reddened. “I 
didn’t expect anything, Daphne. I am afraid I shall 
cost you a great deal as it is.” 

“How did you intend to dress then?” said Daphne. 
“You must have money for that. I couldn’t possibly 
afford to do it out of my own allowance. And I may 
as well tell you frankly, Ursula, that he won’t refuse 
if you ask for more.” 

“I shall certainly not ask for it,” said Ursula. 
Her sister’s attitude toward money had always been 
incomprehensible to her. “You know it would be 
impossible for me to earn as much as that. I had 
twenty-five pounds a year at the Garronis, and the 
Princess gave me two hundred lire a month.” 

Suddenly she thought: “I shall be able to send 
quite a lot home, and I can help Nicholas too.” She 
was sure that she would hardly need anything for 
herself, and the prospect of being able to help her 
brother brightened all the future. 

“Please thank your husband very much. Daphne. 
It is very generous of him.” 

“Oh, I’ll be sure to tell him !” said Daphne laugh- 
ing, as she went out of the room. 

Daphne was in high good humor all that day. 
She took Ursula out shopping that morning, and 
bought her hats, coats, and frocks, blouses and furs, 
till the girl felt utterly bewildered at the prospect of 
possessing so many things. She grudged the money 
that was being spent so freely upon her, and longed 
to tell her sister not to make any more purchases. 
She would far rather have had it to^ send home, and 
once she timidly suggested something of the kind. 

“Nonsense !” said Daphne. “I can’t have you look- 
ing like a ragbag. You must be decently dressed.” 


URSULA FINCH 


346 

Few young girls can perhaps be wholly insensible 
to their first acquisition of pretty and dainty apparel, 
and to do Daphne justice she chose everything that 
she thought would be becoming to Ursula. The 
girl looked quite transformed when she put on her 
new things for the first time. It was ungrateful, 
she felt, to wish herself back at the villa wearing 
her old shabby raiment again, 


CHAPTER XXXV 


C UNDAY had come and on the morrow they were 
^ to leave for Rome. They would remain abroad 
perhaps for several months, wandering about from 
place to place, staying in each one only as long as 
Daphne chose. Ursula in her heart believed that the 
arrangement would only continue for a short time. 
Daphne would soon weary of it, would find some 
excuse for getting rid of her. 

The future seemed to her both dark and uncertain. 
Daphne was a capricious person, and her sister knew 
that she would be absolutely in her power. She 
wanted her company now for some private reason 
of her own, but very soon the time might come when 
she would not wish for her any more. 

Ursula went that morning to High Mass at the 
Church of the Annunziata. It was, as always, very 
full, and when she entered she saw that many people 
were kneeling and praying around the famous shrine 
at whose altar a Low Mass was just being celebrated. 
Ursula knelt down to pray with the others before go- 
ing nearer to the High Altar to find a seat. The 
blaze of candles made a brilliant patch of light in the 
sombre church. 

An hour later she came out, feeling comforted 
and sustained. After all, the outlook was not so 
dark. And the joy of being able to help Nicholas 
was a compensation for all that she had been called 
upon to sacrifice. She went out into the brilliant De- 
cember sunshine that lay in bars of mellowed gold 
upon the city. She passed the hospital of the Inno- 
centi, and walked across the square where the statue 
of the Grand Duke Ferdinand recalls to all English 
people Browning’s famous poem of The Statue and 
347 


URSULA FINCH 


348 

the Bust. Ursula looked up — as, indeed, which of 
us in passing has failed to look up? — expecting to 
see the “passionate i)ale lad^r’s face” gazing, from 
its marble prison set in the window above, upon the 
statue riding its prancing steed below. 

She paused for a moment, and as she stood there 
a voice broke in upon her thoughts : 

“No, you won’t see her. I believe sKe was never 
really there. Some people say that Browning in- 
vented the whole story. Does it matter? It was 
at least hen trovato as they say here I” 

It hardly surprised her to see Humphrey and to 
hear his voice. She knew now that she had been 
expecting him to come. A foolish dream, perhaps — 
yet even such unlikely dreams as that had come true 
before now. She had tried to banish him from her 
thoughts, a stem self-discipline of which she had 
learned painfully the wisdom, but he had a trick of 
dominating them all nevertheless. She had not for- 
gotten that he had once discussed Browning with her, 
with all the ardor of a passionate disciple; he had 
even talked about this very poem. Did he remem- 
ber it now? 

“ ‘Let a man contend to his uttermost, for his 
life’s set prize be what it will I’ ” he quoted. “I have 
always liked those words. When I read them I 
think of Browning taking his wife, that fair-coined 
soul, as Francis Thompson says, from where she lay 
rusting in a pool of tears, and bearing her away to 
Italy. That was his life’s set prize and he overcame 
all obstacles to obtain it.” 

He went on speaking, aware that Ursula looked 
confused and a little embarrassed at his sudden ap- 
pearance. Evidently he had startled her. But she 
had time, while he made this light speech, to recover 
from her surprise. That his coming had any con- 
nection with herself — with her own plans — ^never oc- 


URSULA FINCH 


349 


curred to her. Indeed, at the moment, it was enough 
for her to know that he had come, that he was really 
there. 

“Have you just arrived?” she asked at last. 

“I came last night.” 

“Do you know if the Princess had received my let- 
ter?” 

“Yes. It came in the morning.” 

“She told you perhaps of the change ?” 

“Yes,” he said again. Then he cleared his throat. 
“I must tell you my dear Miss Finch, without fur- 
ther preliminary, that it has my heartiest and most 
unqualified disapproval. I feared something of the 
sort when your sister’s telegram came. Which way 
are you going? I will walk with you. It will give 
me such immense pleasure to tell you exactly what 
I think.” 

“You must not try to persuade me not to go. I 
feel that it is my duty,” said Ursula. She spoke al- 
most harshly. It would be so fatally easy for him to 
persuade her. He weakened her high resolve. 

They walked down the narrow street, the Via dei 
Servi, with the Dome lifting its ruby shape against 
the bright blue of the sky, just in front of them. 

“It was to give myself precisely this pleasure that 
I came to Florence two days sooner than I intended. 
To-day I meant to call at the hotel and ask to see 
you. But I was horribly afraid lest I should find 
that I was too late, that you had already left.” 

“To-morrow you would have been too late. We 
are going to Rome to-morrow. And after that to 
Naples and Sicily.” 

As she enumerated the places something of the 
old sense of desolation came over her. She was 
never quite so brave when Humphrey was there. 
His very compassion diminished her courage. 

“It is on that very point that I wish to remon- 


350 


URSULA FINCH 


strata with you,” he told her. His voice was light 
and satirical as ever, but she thought she had never 
seen him look so serious and determined before. 

“You are not going to join your sister and her 
husband,” he said, in a tone of suppressed anger, 
which she had the wisdom to know was in no way 
directed against herself. “I am not going to allow 
it. You will ask me, I suppose, what right I have to 
interfere between you. I am going to ask you to 
give me that right!” 

They stopped beneath the shadow of the Dome, 
and Ursula meeting his eyes saw in them that strange 
expression which had been in them that night when 
he had come to her aid in the Roman hotel. It 
thrilled her now with a trembling excitement and 
fear, just as it had done then. It awakened that old 
hope in her heart that she began to feel she would 
never be called upon to repress again. 

“Will you give me that right, Ursula?” he asked. 

Neither of them paid the slightest heed to the 
passers-by, some of whom stopped to bestow inter- 
ested or curious glances upon them. It was impos- 
sible now for Ursula to mistake his meaning or to 
be deceived by the expression in his face, which was 
at once tender and stern. She knew now that this 
was her hour — the hour that comes sooner or later 
to most women, when love offers them its great and 
lasting treasures. And it seemed to her that only 
to stand there and listen to Humphrey’s voice filled 
the whole world with a strange almost insupportable 
sweetness. 

Above their heads the slim column of Giotto’s 
Tower glittered palely in the strong sunlight. A 
motor clattered past. She saw people pushing their 
way eagerly into the trams. Wonderful that the 
world should still be going on with its accustomed 
round as if nothing at all had happened. 


URSULA FINCH 


351 

“Do speak to me, Ursula dear,” he said at last. 

It gave her a little shock to hear his voice break 
with emotion as he uttered the words. She lifted 
her eyes, and saw that his face was pale and drawn 
with suspense as if he could bear to wait no longer 
for her answer. For the first time she understood 
how greatly he cared for her. He looked almost 
afraid that he was going to lose her. Was she really 
his “life’s set prize?” Was it for this reason he had 
followed her to Florence? 

“Don’t you understand? I love you — I want you 
to be my wife. And I have sometimes hoped that 
you were not quite indifferent to me !” 

No, she had never been indifferent. Long ago 
in Pentarn that love she need neyer repress again 
had been born. She had hidden it secretly in her 
heart ever since. Always she had been afraid of be- 
traying it. Now she need never be afraid of doing 
so again. He loved her. He wanted her to be his 
wife. The world — the busy commonplace world — 
seemed to be spinning about her. 

He took her hand in his. 

“I told the Princess exactly why I was coming be- 
fore I left. She wants you to come back with me 
for a few days before I go to England. Just for a 
short visit, so that we can see a little of each other. 
You’ll come, won’t you?” 

“Yes,” said Ursula. 

They walked on in silence to the Via Tornabuoni. 
At last she said: 

“Won’t it make any difference to you — my be- 
ing a Catholic?” 

“Yes, the greatest difference in the world,” he as- 
sured her. 

“You think your parents will mind?” she asked 
timidly. 

“I was not thinking of them. I was thinking of 


352 


URSULA FINCH 


myself. When I first heard of it in Rome it made 
me feel a coward.” 

“A coward?” 

“Yes, because you had had the courage to do just 
what I was afraid of doing. Now you have changed 
all that. I shall be a Catholic before we are mar- 
ried, Ursula.” 

“Oh, I am so glad,” she said impulsively; “so very 
glad!” 

“You have never said yet that you will marry 
me,” said Humphrey. “You leave me to take so 
much for granted.” 

“Didn’t I say yes? I meant to. But you took me 
so by surprise. I never thought you could possibly 
care for me.” 

“It began at Pentarn,” said Humphrey. 

“Did it really?” He was surprising her more 
and more with his revelations. 

“Yes,” he said, “I made a last struggle for liberty 
then, my dear Ursula. But I couldn’t forget you — 
I had to come and seek you out to find if I had been 
mistaken or not. But that night in Rome — ” 

He stopped short. Then he added in a more 
matter-of-fact tone: 

“You were very elusive, were you not? You had 
a most singular talent for escaping! I was in de- 
spair.” 

She looked straight in front of her. 

“Oh,” she said, “can’t you see why? I wanted 
to go away to forget you. It began at Pentarn 
with me, too.” 

And with this reassurance Humphrey was amply 
satisfied. 

“Yesterday when your letter came I made up my 
mind you should never escape from me again till I 
had had my answer from your own lips. Daphne 
had already defrauded me once, and I was deter- 


URSULA FINCH 


353 

mined that she should never do it again. I hope 
now that I shall be able to forgive her.” 

When they reached the hotel she invited him to 
come in, but this he refused to do. 

“No, I’ll come back later. But promise me, my 
darling Ursula, that you won’t try to run away from 
me again? I don’t feel as if I could trust you yet!” 

“I promise you that I won’t escape,” she told him, 
with a most beautiful light in her eyes. 

“And we must be married very soon. Tell Lady 
Cheam that I positively refuse to wait 1” 

She moved toward the door. “You’ll come this 
afternoon?” she said. 

“At three o’clock. Please be waiting downstairs 
for me, Ursula. I shan’t feel safe until I see you. 
And to-morrow we will go back to Mintella.” 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


U rsula went straight up to her sister’s sitting- 
room. Since Humphrey was to return so early 
in the afternoon, it was necessary to tell her at once 
that her plans were altered and that she could not 
accompany them to Rome. Yet, she went unwillingly 
to seek this interview with Lady Cheam. She had 
still a little secret fear that Daphne might once more 
step between her and her happiness. She knew the 
power of Daphne, how great it was, how unscrupu- 
lous it could be. She was afraid of it. Twice al- 
ready had Daphne wrested her from Humphrey. 
She had been blind not to perceive it before. But 
Humphrey had seen it — he had told her that he 
hoped now to be able to forgive Daphne. Oh, she 
had really nothing to fear! Humphrey’s love was 
surely stronger than all the efforts that could be 
made now to destroy it. 

She came into the room. Daphne was lying on 
the sofa reading a novel. Her attitude took Ursula 
at once back to Pentarn, and she seemed to see her in 
the window-seat of the dining-room leaning her head 
against the faded rag of green curtain. 

Lady Cheam looked up as she came into the room. 
She bestowed upon Ursula a long and close scrutiny. 
Yes, she was certainly looking her best to-day in 
that new dark blue coat and skirt, with the black fur 
stole coming close against her slim white throat. 
The hat, too, with its blue wings was becoming. One 
might almost call Ursula pretty, especially when 
she had that soft flush in her cheeks, that light in 
her grey eyes. She had quite lost her old, oppressed, 
down-trodden look. 

“I have come to tell you, Daphne, that I can’t 
go with you after all,” said Ursula. 

354 


URSULA FINCH 


355 


Daphne threw down her book. 

“What nonsense I Of course you are coming!” 
she said, in a surprised, indignant tone. “You can- 
not possibly play fast and loose with us like this. 
Nor can you quarrel with the only relations who will 
have anything to do with you. I advise you to put 
such an idea as that out of your head.” 

“I am going back to Mintella to-morrow morn- 
ing,” said Ursula. 

“You shall do no such thing!” declared Daphne, 
her temper now thoroughly aroused. “I do not 
know what has come over you, Ursula, but I think 
you must have gone mad. However, I don’t in- 
tend to let you give way to your folly.” 

“Don’t be angry. Daphne,” said Ursula, smiling, 
“I haven’t told you everything yet. You see I’m 
engaged to be married, and the Princess wants me 
to go back to her on a visit.” 

“Engaged to be married!” repeated Daphne, vis- 
ibly impressed. “Why, whom on earth are you go- 
ing to marry, Ursula? Not an Italian, I hope? We 
did hear some talk of you and a young relation of 
the Garronis while you were in Rome !” 

“I am going to marry Humphrey Willmot,” said 
Ursula. Even as she uttered the words they seemed 
too unreal, too stupendous to be believed. It was 
still too much like one of those beautiful dreams that 
had so often haunted her slumbers, and in which 
Humphrey had come to tell her of his love. 

“You are not! You must be dreaming, Ursula! 
Why, you hardly know him !” 

Of course Ursula must be making a mistake. It 
was quite impossible that Humphrey should wish 
to marry her. But as she looked at her sister now 
she could not deny that her face was suffused with 
a strange, satisfied happiness that was altogether 
new to It. 


356 


URSULA FINCH 


“I met him this morning as I was coming out of 
church. He saw my letter to the Princess, telling 
her that I was not going back, and so he came to 
Florence last night.’° Ursula’s voice was soft and 
lingering. It was easy to see that she could not quite 
believe in her own happiness. 

Daphne was contemplating with dismay the fail- 
ure of her own plans. Humphrey had simply 
stepped in with a frank and straight-forward decla- 
ration, and had destroyed them all. She had only 
precipitated matters; had only succeeded in flinging 
these two persons — threatened with an arbitrary sep- 
aration — into each other’s arms. 

She envied Ursula. Through all her anger she 
envied her passionately. Many, many women would 
thus envy her. 

“Does he know that you have become a Catholic? 
If you have kept that from him it will probably put 
an end to the whole affair the moment he finds it 
out.” Daphne’s voice had a harsh, ugly quality. 

“Of course he knows. He told me he was very 
glad. I think he will soon be one himself,” answered 
Ursula, simply. 

She looked beautiful then, in her new-found hap- 
piness. There was no need to ask her if she loved 
him. It stood confessed in her radiant eyes. 

“I envy you,” said Daphne, speaking almost re- 
luctantly as if the acknowledgment were being 
dragged from her. “You’ll have just the kind of 
happiness that I’ve missed. You are extraordinarily 
lucky, Ursula.” 

For a moment her own face seemed to lose some- 
thing of its youth. She had wanted to marry Hum- 
phrey Willmot last spring. He had been the one 
man who had ever really attracted her. And he had 
never shown her anything but a scarcely-veiled hos^ 
tility beneath his always courteous and charming 


URSULA FINCH 


357 


manner. But even as long ago as that he had no- 
ticed Ursula, had contrived to arrange meetings with 
her, had sent her books to read. What was there in 
Ursula to arouse the love of such a man as that? 

“Shall you mind if I go back to the villa to-mor- 
row, Daphne? If you wish it very much I could 
perhaps go to Rome with you for a little.” 

“No, no,” said Daphne. She was wise enough to 
see when the game was lost. “You must go with 
Humphrey. He has first claim on you now. He 
wouldn’t thank me for taking you away — I dare say 
he would even try to prevent it.” 

“But I shan’t like keeping all those pretty frocks 
and things you’ve given me.” 

“They’ll be useful for your trousseau,” said the 
practical Daphne; “you’ll want lots of pretty frocks 
when you’re Mrs. Humphrey Willmotl We can’t 
let you go to him like the Beggar Maid.” She 
forced a smile. “I must go and break the news to 
Cheam.” She went toward the door and then 
paused. “I’ve never congratulated you, Ursula. 
But I’ll say this for you : you deserve your luck. I 
know you will be happy — people like you always are. 
I suppose you will be married soon?” 

“We haven’t settled anything. Only he doesn’t 
want to wait.” 

Daphne, with her hand on the door, regarded Ur- 
sula critically, almost as if she were looking at her 
for the first time. 

“Will you tell me if you were in love with him 
at Pentarn?” she asked, curiously. 

“I suppose I was. I tried not to think of it,” said 
Ursula. 

“Did you ever think then that he might be falling 
in love with you?” pursued Daphne, inexorably. 

“I did think of it once or twice. But it seemed 


URSULA FINCH 


358 

impossible. I used to tell myself that it was only 
because he was a little sorry for me. Now I know- — 
he has told me — that it did begin then. With him 
as well as with me.” 

She spoke in a quiet, restrained tone. 

“Did you guess that was the reason why we made 
you go abroad?” 

“Yes. I thought it had something to do with it. 
Mamma was so angry about the books — about our 
going on the cliffs together.” 

“You must be an angel, Ursula, to bear no 
grudge !” said Daphne. 

“Oh, Daphne, when I’m so grateful I” 

“Grateful, child! What on earth do you mean?” 

“I mean, nw going to Rome was worth every- 
thing to me. Even if it had succeeded in separating 
me eternally from Humphrey.” 

Daphne had the sense to see that Ursula was not 
referring now to any temporal happiness, but to those 
gifts of the Spirit of which she herself was ignorant, 
and which she pretended to despise. 

“Well, it is wonderful that you have accomplished 
his conversion too,” she said enviously. 

“He thinks that he accomplished mine,” said Ur- 
sula, smiling. “It was he who first praised the Cath- 
olic Church to me. He used to speak of it often at 
Pentarn, and I knew he loved it. But I never 
thought then that I should become a Catholic.” 

Daphne came back across the room, and moved by 
a rare impulse of affection she stooped and kissed 
her. 

“Well, they will say at Pentarn that we have both 
done very well for ourselves 1 No doubt papa will 
forgive you now, and in any case it doesn’t much 
matter. You will be awfully happy I expect — you 
and Humphrey will still be like lovers long after 
Cheam and I have torn each other to pieces I” She 


URSULA FINCH 


\ 


3S9 


gave a harsh, grating laugh. She couldn’t bear to 
think of the happiness that was to be Ursula’s. 

“I’ve been a brute to you, I know, Ursula,” she 
said suddenly; “but don’t please teach Humphrey 
to hate me too much I” 

“I shan’t let him hate you at all,” said Ursula, 
smiling. 

For the first time in her life she felt sorry for 
Daphne, who had missed so much that she herself 
had gained. 


CHAPTER XXXVII 


P ENTARN again — in May, when, be the weather 
what it will, England is always at her loveliest 
with her mantle of fresh green, her meadows strewn 
with silver drifts of flowers. 

St. Faith’s. The huddled grey cottages, the clus- 
tered slate roofs, the blunt shape of the Island 
lifted above the long blue line of the Atlantic, divid- 
ing it in two. The little grey chapel of St. Nicholas 
crowning its summit, built on the site of one of those 
ancient Cornish shrines, the study of which had 
brought Humphrey Willmot back to the old faith. 
The green slopes of the Island where the fishing 
nets, laid out to dry, formed brown patches. 

Down in the harbor the tide is out, and the space 
of gleaming wet sand shows pools of blue reflected 
from the sky. The fishing-boats will not be afloat 
again for some hours. In the meantime the flocks of 
sea-gulls are enjoying their feast of fragments, stir- 
ring restlessly in the rigging, quarreling upon the 
decks, waddling on the flat sand like animated balls 
of snow. Circling overhead with unhappy mewing 
cries that always seem to hold something of the 
tragedy of the sea. 

Now the white road that goes along the top of 
the hill, dipping and climbing till it reaches Pentarn. 
Thick hedges of veronica, dark green, glossy leaves, 
and short purple plumes of blossom. Flaming 
spaces in the Cornish woods, where the earliest rho- 
dodendrons have burst into bloom in warm south 
corners. Wonderful misty carpets of bluebells like 
fragments of sky dropped down into the woods, 
filling the air with a perfume of almonds. Armies 
of fox-gloves, whose proud and slender spires match 
360 


URSULA FINCH 


361 

the rhododendrons In color, and whose little honey- 
filled purple purses offer a perpetual feast for the 
bees. Torrents of rose-pink valerian decorating old 
stone walls, just as the roses do in Italy, flaming, too, 
on sunny banks, a riot of color, royal in its splendor. 
Glimpses of the sea, now very calm and blue under 
the pale May sky. 

Now the green sweep of the Cornish coast, fad- 
ing into delicate mists. The black rocks polished and 
gleaming with the caress of the waves. Pentarn 
Rock and lighthouse I . . . The groups of grey aus- 
tere-looking little cottages. The heaps of slack, the 
skeleton machinery lifting gaunt, ugly arms to the 
sky, to show where once men dived deep into the 
earth’s recesses to bring forth its treasure. The 
square tower of the thirteenth-century church set in a 
grove of elms. The rectory standing close to it, 
narrow, oblong-shaped, insufficiently sheltered by the 
sparse wind-distorted trees. 

Now the entrance to the Abbey grounds through 
the tall iron gates. On both sides of them fields of 
growing grass tossed back lightly by the wind, show- 
ing, too, spaces of silver where the big moon-daisies 
cluster. Patches of gorse, grey and superbly golden. 
Patches of scarlet poppies, frail silken chalices sway- 
ing tremulously. The woods where the young 
bracken is unfolding delicious emerald knots. The 
grey walls, ancient and watchful, waiting for their 
new master, Humphrey Willmot, to take up his 
abode there with his young wife. 

Humphrey and his wife. ... 

She could hardly believe it, even now with that 
wonderful three months behind her of journeying 
alone with him through Italy and North Africa. It 
had passed like some ecstatic dream. Journeys 
through wide white desert places that she had never 
even hoped to see. Palm-trees and chalk-white 


362 


URSULA FINCH 


houses, and the fluting of Arab shepherds and the 
beating of Arab drums. A new world in which she 
had seemed to be quite alone with Humphrey in a 
happiness that was almost too great to be borne. 

And now the home-coming, to the old house his 
father had bought for him as a wedding present. 
Pentarn was dear to him, and he wanted to have a 
foothold there. 

He watched her now. How beautiful she was,^ 
with that soft color in her face, that steady shining 
of the grey eyes. 

“Like it?” he said, and his blue-grey eyes, whim- 
sical, ironical, sought hers. 

“Oh, Humphrey, so very much I” 

Long ago forgiveness had been sought and ob- 
tained from her parents. They were to meet to- 
night — her father and mother and Ruth had all been 
invited to dinner. Thus the reconciliation would be 
sealed. “My daughters have both made such excel- 
lent marriages,” Mrs. Finch was never tired of say- 
ing. “Of course we all expected it of Daphne, but 
Ursula — ” Nicholas, now established on a ranch of 
his own, was as happy as a king in the Canada he 
refused to leave. Next year perhaps Humphrey and 
Ursula would pay him a visit. 

They had stopped now before the door of the 
Abbey. Above the grey chimneys the first swallows 
were circling. Pentarn! Her own world . . . 
The blue and green and gold of it. . . . The tang 
of the sea ... the fresh winds from the Atlantic 
. . . Her own earth . . . Pentarn, where they had 
first known and learned to love each other. 

(THE END) 2 

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